


Witch's Brew

by hagface



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe, David is a witch, M/M, Magic AU, love potions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27725065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hagface/pseuds/hagface
Summary: David’s eyes flick between Jocelyn and the stocky man in a blue button-up who is currently browsing his store. David prides himself on knowing every single one of his customers, which is why this man stands out—David has never seen him before.He does his best to focus his attention on Jocelyn—she’s one of his best customers, or rather, one of his most frequent. She comes in about once a week, looking for a potion or spell to undo yet another curse that has befallen Roland. David had thought—or hoped—that after the fourth time, Roland would learn to stop pissing off the wrong people, but there’s been no such development. Though it aggravates David, he has to admit that Roland’s stupidity turns a decent profit.-Or: David is a witch. Patrick is in the market for a love potion.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 345
Kudos: 371





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic fought me every step of the way! It's your problem now! Enjoy!
> 
> There are five chapters and I will be posting everyday!

David’s eyes flick between Jocelyn and the stocky man in a blue button-up who is currently browsing his store. David prides himself on knowing every single one of his customers, which is why this man stands out—David has never seen him before.

He does his best to focus his attention on Jocelyn—she’s one of his best customers, or rather, one of his most  _ frequent. _ She comes in about once a week, looking for a potion or spell to undo yet another curse that has befallen Roland. David had thought—or hoped—that after the fourth time, Roland would learn to stop pissing off the wrong people, but there’s been no such development. Though it aggravates David, he has to admit that Roland’s stupidity turns a decent profit. 

Jocelyn’s been describing the newest curse for the better part of half an hour, and as she says “supernumerary toe growth” and “strange smell”, David remembers why it was all too easy to let his attention drift in the first place. Though, he does prefer Jocelyn’s long winded descriptions of Roland’s ailments to the actual  _ sight _ of them. When Roland had shown up in David’s shop after curse number two (or was it curse number three?), he had lifted his shirt and shown David more than he had ever wanted to see. So yes, hearing about extra toes  _ was _ better than seeing them. 

And, yet...

David looks again to the unfamiliar man. He watches as he picks up various tinctures and enchantments, studies them too briefly to really be interested, and puts them down a moment later—slightly askew. It’s driving David up the wall. He’ll have to stay late today, reorganizing and sanitizing everything the man has touched. 

“Do you think you can help?” Jocelyn says, and David wishes, not for the first time, that he could just point her to a shelf of pre-made potions or tell her to put a pinecone under Roland’s pillow. Unfortunately, it is never that simple—Roland’s  _ issues _ always require a more… bespoke solution, which means that David has to clarify a few of the decidedly unsavory details. He asks questions like  _ how many toes? _ and  _ can you describe the smell in more detail? _ and it kills him a little bit to listen to Jocelyn’s answers.

Since David opened Rose Apothecary nearly two years ago, he’s established a rather loyal customer base. He’d like to believe that his dazzling charm and his highly effective  _ charms _ are what drive the majority of his sales, but he knows it probably has more to do with proximity. David is the only witch in Schitt’s Creek and nobody wants to drive all the way to Elmdale for a simple healing spell. Either way, he’s grateful for the support. And the money. Mostly he’s grateful for the money. 

In the two years that he’s been a business owner, and the year he lived here before that, David has become familiar with every resident of Schitt’s Creek. Almost everyone has visited his shop at some point. There’s Jocelyn, of course, and Twyla—who has bought every variation of spell, potion, charm, enchantment, and even the occasional hex that David has ever offered at least once. There’s Ronnie, who likes to buy protection charms to hide in the walls of the houses she builds. There’s Stevie, who doesn’t usually mess with magic, but she’ll smoke almost any of the herbs David grows in the studio above the shop. 

There’s Bob and Gwen, who seem more interested in what other people are buying than in making any purchases themselves.

The customers who perhaps cause David the least amount of stress are the group of older women, from the local retirement home, who visit the store every Wednesday afternoon. They love buying good luck charms or wishbones for their grandchildren and they  _ adore _ David. It’s through flattery and compliments that they are able convince David to enchant an embroidery hoop or a skein of yarn at no extra cost, so they can send their families magiced throw pillows stitched with a motivational quote or a pair of socks that—

_ Socks, _ David thinks. Roland needs magic socks. Creams and salves seem to have no lasting effect on the man, whether they’re infused with intricate spellwork or eucalyptus and shea butter.

David interrupts Jocelyn, who has begun to tell him about Roland’s (unrelated) dietary concerns, to tell her that he will talk with Dot about knitting a pair of enchanted socks. That seems to satisfy her and the sound of the bell above the door ringing as she leaves is the prettiest thing he’s heard all day. 

David looks around his shop, empty but for one unfamiliar face. The man has drifted closer to the front of the shop, leaving a trail of destruction behind him. Okay, maybe  _ destruction _ is a little extreme. Probably no one else would notice a crooked bottle or a few stray fingerprints. But David notices. He spent months curating his shop within an inch of perfection. Every potion and spell, every ingredient, every product he sells has been meticulously sought after or made by his own hand. 

One of a kind and locally sourced. It says exactly that in bold lettering across the front windows of his shop, under the name and above the hours of operation.

David loves the Apothecary. He’s never worked harder for anything in his life, has never put so much energy and effort into something. It may have come later in life, and it may be embarrassing to admit, but the Apothecary is the first thing—done by his own hand—that David is genuinely proud of. So it might be an overreaction, to be so bothered by some guy fiddling with his products, but… it doesn’t even seem like he intends to  _ buy _ any of it. If David thought he was about to make a sale, he might be more lenient. 

The man lets his fingers brush against another bottle, then along the edge of the shelf the bottle is sitting on. He looks interested in nothing, like he is merely killing time, waiting for… something. He moves past the shelf—evidently not interested in a sleeping drought or dream potion—and stops in front of another display. He takes a piece of orange ribbon between his fingers as if to assess the quality, but David isn’t sure he sees it at all. 

David takes one careful step closer, then another, until he’s nearly next to the man. David wants to tell him off, to say  _ buy something or get out, _ but… he’s caught off guard by how attractive the man is. He can’t quite explain it, but everything that seemed so generic about this man when David watched him from across the floor, has become much more interesting now that he’s closed the distance. David takes the briefest of moments to admire the way someone so compact and angular can also be soft and… well,  _ pretty. _ He wonders if the man would find that word flattering or insulting. Either way, all of the irritation that David had planned to weaponize against him has disappeared. 

“Hummingbirds,” David says, choosing to inform rather than attack. 

“What?” The man asks, startled at David’s sudden appearance. His voice is warm, even when caught off guard, and rich in tone if not in texture. His eyes, though—his eyes are round and bright and there’s something about them that makes David think  _ kind.  _ He thinks  _ gentle. _ He thinks the man wouldn’t mind at all, being called pretty. It takes him a second to recover, to remember what he was saying. 

“The ribbon attracts hummingbirds,” he clarifies, nodding his head at the collection of orange ribbons that adorn the wall, in various shades and thicknesses. “You hang them from a tree branch or tie it around the trunk.”

“Why would you want to do that?” The man lets the ribbon fall from his fingers and turns to more fully face David. David resists the urge to flirt. He’d promised himself he would stop flirting with customers out of boredom. 

“People generally like hummingbirds,” David says. “They’re pretty and they symbolize change and joy and love.”

“So… kind of a mixed bag, then?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” David shakes his head.

“It’s just… when something symbolizes so many different things… it might as well not symbolize anything at all. It just seems… excessive.”

David tilts his head and pinches his eyebrows together. He doesn’t disagree, but admitting that probably isn't the best way to move the product. He allows himself a moment to study the man, to figure out which of the many meanings would appeal to him the most. He remembers the man’s aimless wandering and says, “hummingbirds can be a reminder to seek more joy in your life.”

The man blinks slowly, like he’s considering David’s words. He smiles, and though it’s sharp and teasing, David can’t help but notice how it flatters his face. “Do you sell a lot of these ribbons?”

He’s sold maybe three in the six or so months that he’s stocked them; one to a local farmer, and two to Ted, the veterinarian. David had asked why he needed more than one, and Ted had cheerfully informed him that the second was for his mother. 

“She’s been through the  _ winger _ lately, and I think this will make her smile,” Ted had said. That had been two months ago, and nobody had looked at the ribbons since. 

“No,” David admits to the man, tucking his smile into his cheek.

He laughs and David thinks suddenly, unbidden, that  _ this _ is now the prettiest sound he’s heard all day. He hates himself for clinging to romantic notions, but it had never been a habit he knew how to break. He laughs, too, evidently unable to ward himself against the contagious sound.

“Oh,” the man says, his eyes sparkling. “My mother always told me that making a witch laugh is good luck. Is it true?”

“No,” David says. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to tell your mother that it’s just a myth.” He leans a little closer, officially breaking his own rule, giving in to the urge to flirt if that’s not what he’d been doing already, and whispers, “Kissing a witch, however…”

The smile drops from the man’s face and before David can see if he at least caused a blush to bloom across his unmarked, porcelain skin, he turns away from David and back to the ribbons.

David takes a step back, but before he can become entirely overwhelmed with the kind of shame that comes from taking flirting too far, the man clears his throat. He tilts his head a degree in David’s direction, enough for him to see the soft pink coloring his cheeks, and smiles. It’s not nearly so brave or brazen as it was earlier, but it's there. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says.

The words settle somewhere deep inside David, and all he can think is  _ I hope you do. _ After a moment of semi-awkward silence, he’s able to relax enough to remember how to do his job. He’s dealing with a customer, after all. “Did you need help finding something?”

“Yes, actually… I was wondering if, uh…” The man huffs, and brings a hand up to squeeze the back of his neck. He seems like he’d rather be anywhere else at the moment and, for once, David doesn’t think it’s entirely his fault. The man had seemed out of place from the moment he stepped into David’s store. “Do you sell love potions?”

The question is like a punch to the gut, or at the very least, like a cold shower—it works just as well to squash David’s attraction.  _ How disappointing, _ is all David can bring himself to think. Not out of any misguided notion that they’d run off together and live happily ever after, but because David  _ hates _ love potions. 

“Uh, no,” he says. “We don’t—not here. You should try Elmdale.” David backs away, positioning himself behind the register. He tries to look busy, to communicate wordlessly that the conversation is over. He grabs a pair of pruning shears from beneath the counter and begins to deadhead a potted ivy plant that sits to his left.

“I  _ came _ from Elmdale. Wendy sent me here.” The man follows David, his wide-eyed stare pinning him in place from across the counter. 

_ Wendy. _ David finally gives in to the urge to roll his eyes.

Wendy had been the one to teach David the fundamentals of magic when he’d first ended up in Schitt’s Creek. Sure, his mother had practiced, but she’d focused only on alchemy and never ventured to teach either of her children much of  _ anything,  _ nevermind how to turn lead into gold. It had never bothered David—why would he need to  _ learn _ magic when they had more than enough money to  _ buy _ it?

He had never wanted to be a witch.

It was only when a family friend had stolen their gold and cursed his mother, leaving them poor and alone in Schitt’s Creek, that David realized having a skill, magic or otherwise, might not only be beneficial, but necessary. Moira had lost her magic ability, and with it any willingness to share her knowledge. 

So that was that. David didn’t think much more about magic—in fact, the first job he’d pursued in Schitt’s Creek was a bag-boy position at the local grocery store. But, when that didn’t work out (through no fault of his own, might he add), he’d been forced to look elsewhere.

David heard from Stevie that Wendy was looking for an apprentice. He rejected the idea immediately—not only did he not want to live in his mother’s shadow, but he’d also been to Wendy’s shop. He and Alexis had gone almost immediately after arriving in town, to look for something, a potion or spell of some sort, to ease the transition. His mother had begged him to find her a curse, something that would make her sleep for the next twenty years, and at the time, David didn’t think that was such a bad idea. Of course, that kind of magic ended up being a little too… nuanced… for Wendy. The quality of magic she offered left much to be desired, and David may have told her so.

But  _ options _ were no longer a luxury afforded to the Roses and David, eventually, learned to swallow his pride—long enough to convince Wendy he was worth teaching, anyway. 

She’d been surprisingly patient and kind to a David who was unskilled and unmotivated. He would always be grateful, even though their tastes differed  _ greatly _ when it came to magical practice. She was a little looser with her morals, willing to brew anything as long as the price was right.

David, on the other hand, had a stricter code of ethics and a little more self respect. There are things he just won’t do, like cloning Jocelyn (no matter how many times Roland begs) and brewing love potions.

“Well, I’m sorry you came all this way, but I  _ don’t _ do love potions,” David says. “They’re unethical and cruel and I won’t help you rope some innocent, unsuspecting person into—”

“No, that’s not—”

“—into a romance just because you have some obsessive fixation—”

“Wait! Wait, please. You’re right,” the man says. He looks embarrassed and humbled and David is taken aback by the desperation in his voice. He hadn’t actually expected to win that argument, not so quickly anyway. Customers had a tendency to view magic differently—they see magic as a commodity, as a product unattached from morals. Not unlike the way David used to view it. If you  _ can _ make a love potion, why  _ shouldn’t _ you? 

David opens his mouth to say something, or ask something, but he doesn’t get the chance. The man, apparently, has more to say. “It’s for me. The potion is for me.”

David shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Um, it’s—” The bell above the door rings and David gives a friendly nod to Heather as she enters the shop. The man waits until she’s moved to the back of the room to continue speaking. When he does, his voice is low and David has to lean closer in order to properly hear him. “I’ll be drinking the love potion.”

“Why would you do that?” David asks. He’s actually taken a few himself. Granted, they were minor potions, the effect closer to a drug-induced high that only lasted a matter of hours. It was fun in the moment, for sex or kissing, but… They always left him feeling hollow and more alone afterwards. The effects of a real love potion, one tailor made for a specific person… It would be strong and nearly irreversible, but it would also be… ingenuine. An illusion. A potion induced fugue. 

He can’t imagine someone willingly committing themselves to that kind of falsehood for the rest of their lives. David had done many things for attention, had put himself in all sorts of situations for even a single crumb of affection, and yet… there had always been a way out.

“Do I need to tell you?” the man asks. David wants to say no—he generally prefers to remain unattached, to keep a certain amount of distance between himself and other people, emotional and otherwise. Sharing personal details broaches some of that distance, but David admits to himself, reluctantly, that he’s curious. If he’s going to offer his service, he needs to know more.

“If you want me to help you,” David says, “then yes.”

The man pinches his face together for a moment, brows drawn in and mouth pressed in a firm line, like he’s bracing himself against the impact of an unwelcome thought. A moment later he forces eye contact, and all David can think is that he’s rather charmed with the man’s determination. “I’m engaged,” he says, placing his left hand flat on the counter between them. A silver band winks at David from his fourth finger.

“Ah,” David says, but it really explains very little—among the unexplained is the uptick in his heartbeat. “Engaged?”

“I have a fiancee—Rachel.”

“Yes, I do know what  _ engaged _ means. I’m just… trying to understand why you need a love potion.”

“I think we could be happy together, I just need some help.”

“Help…”

“I need a lot of help,” the man admits reluctantly. He casts his gaze downward, like he not only expects to be judged, but deserves it. In the short time David has known this man, he’s witnessed two separate, but equally dominant, personality traits: there’s one of fierce determination—David sees it when he laughs, like it’s his laughter alone that makes the joke funny, and in his eyes, somehow dark and bright at the same time, when he demands eye contact—and the other personality trait, the one that David sees now, is shame. 

“You don’t love her,” David says. It’s not a question, but David still waits for confirmation. 

The man is silent for a moment, as anger clouds his features. He curls his hand into a fist and bounces it once on the surface of the counter. “I do love her.”

“Saying it doesn’t make it true. Magic doesn’t work that way, no matter what you’ve read.” David thinks he shouldn't nettle this man so much, but… he doesn’t want to play this game. He’s a witch, not a marriage counselor. 

“What do you want from me, here?” The man looks up at David again, wild and bewildered. His tone is angry and his jaw is set and maybe it’s one of David’s flaws, but he doesn’t respond well to hostility.

“I’m sorry, you came into  _ my _ store and asked  _ me _ to help  _ you! _ I don’t think I’m the one being ridiculous right now! So either stop talking in circles or make your way back to Elmdale! I’m sure you can bribe Wendy with a gift card to The Blouse Barn.” David crosses his arms in indignation and hopes that he looks as unflinching as he feels.

The man holds his stare, and David thinks he might continue to argue, but—just before David feels as though he might crack under his gaze—Heather returns. And if the look on her face is any confirmation, she knows she’s interrupted something. “Sorry,” she says.

“It’s fine,” David says at the exact same time that the man says, “excuse me.” 

He at least has the decency to concede his spot at the cash to Heather, who is actually making a purchase. She pays for her dried lavender and is out the door a moment later with a sheepish smile.

The man floats back into David’s general vicinity, the interruption having sapped the tension from his body. He seems deflated, and though David knows this means he’s won, he doesn’t like the way it makes him feel. “Fine,” the man says into the silence of the store. “I’m not in love with my fiancee.”

It’s exactly what David had wanted him to say, the confession he had been trying to drag out of him, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling incredibly sorry for the man. How had he gotten himself into this situation? David still didn’t understand the root of it all.

“Why would you stay with her?” he asks. He’s dangerously close to saying something out of character, to offering advice that he is neither qualified nor expected to give. He bites his tongue against words like  _ you deserve better _ and  _ don’t you believe in true love? _ The very idea that David knows anything about love is laughable, ridiculous. Still, every ideal he holds about love has been ripped straight from the slew of rom-coms he watched during his formative years. He can’t help but believe that something like that exists out there somewhere. For someone, if not for himself.

“I’ve never…” the man begins. There’s something like resignation in his voice, something like shame coloring the tips of his ears. “There’s no reason for me to believe that I’ll ever find something better than this. And Rachel… She’s happy. I want to make her happy.”

If David’s concerned for the man’s own happiness, he has the good sense to tuck the thought away. It’s sweet, in a strange and morally questionable kind of way. Would David ever care about anyone enough to put their happiness ahead of his own? Would anyone ever care about David that much?

So maybe neither of them know anything about love, but it seems like they both know plenty about loneliness. Maybe a love potion  _ is _ better, if nothing at all is the alternative.

“What’s your name?” David asks.

“Patrick,” he says. He holds his hand out for David to shake, before adding, “Brewer.”

David offers his name in return and takes his hand, adamantly ignoring the way the contact sends goosebumps traveling up his arm. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay?” Patrick says, dropping David’s hand. “You’ll help me?”

“I’ll help you.”

“Thank you, David, I’m so—”

“I should tell you that love potions are very expensive,” David says, cutting Patrick off from a thank you that was on its way to becoming a little too desperate. It’s not a lie—love potions  _ are _ expensive—but if David’s going to play a starring role in this man’s messy little production, he’s going to milk it for all its worth.

“That’s fine,” Patrick says. His entire demeanor has changed. His face is open, his shoulders are relaxed and David realizes it’s not happiness that has done this to him, but  _ relief. _ For the first time since he entered David’s store, Patrick looks like he’s not carrying a terrible secret. 

“And they’re complicated,” David says. “They take a long time to brew.”

“How long?”

“Four months.” It’s standard for complicated potions to have stages, to require brewing time between ingredients. Assuming Patrick wants this potion to last him longer than a couple of hours of passion, four months isn’t negotiable. 

“Okay,” Patrick huffs. “Okay, that’s close. I’m getting married in four months.”

“Exactly four months?” 

“Four months and a week.” He winces as he says it, and something twists inside David. If he hadn’t already started daydreaming about the espresso machine he’ll finally be able to afford from this commission, David might consider backing out. As it is, the consequences of Patrick’s actions really have very little to do with him.

Instead he says, “if we start tomorrow, it should be done in time.”

“We?”

“I’ll need your help, once or twice a week. Love potions are custom made to suit the parties involved, so unless you want to send Rachel by… it’s got to be you.”

“Right. I think I can manage that.”

“Come by tomorrow and we’ll get started. 5 o’clock.”

“I’ll see you then,” Patrick says, but when David expects him to bolt out the door, he doesn’t. He lingers instead, his gaze drifting around the store.

“Was there something else?” David asks. Honestly, he just wants this man gone so he can close the Apothecary, head back to the motel, and think about every decision he’s made that’s led him here. 

“Yeah,” Patrick says. He walks away from the cash, back to the display of ribbons. “I think I’ll buy one of these ribbons. Rachel loves hummingbirds.”

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's reading and commenting!

“Are you sure you still want to do this?” David asks. He walks to the front door of the Apothecary, flips the sign to  _ closed _ and raises his eyebrow in Patrick’s direction.

“Yes, I still…” Patrick hesitates, swallows audibly. “I still want to do this.”

At his confirmation, David flips the lock, shuts the lights, and steers them both towards the back of the store. As they climb the stairs together, he says, “Did you bring what I asked for?”

“A strand of her hair,” Patrick says, pulling a folded envelope from his back pocket. “I had to steal it from her hairbrush. I feel very weird about all of this.”

David stops at the top of the stairs and turns. He looks at Patrick, two steps below him and wonders, fleetingly, if he has ever kissed someone taller than him. David doesn’t dwell too long on  _ why _ he’s curious—he tells himself that he’s naturally inclined to wondering about everyone’s sexual and romantic history, not just Patrick’s. Either way, David can’t tell and he’s not in the habit of making assumptions, not of  _ that _ nature anyway. His eyes search Patrick’s face, and after he takes in the gentle furrow between his eyebrows and the almost imperceptible downturn of his mouth, he lands on an entirely different assumption.

“You’ve never used magic before, have you?”

“No.”

It probably should have been one of the first questions he asked, but he was distracted by the  _ love potion _ of it all. He’s not surprised—Patrick’s entire aesthetic doesn’t exactly shout double, double, toil and trouble—nor discouraged. In fact, it might be better to work with someone with no prior knowledge, someone who won’t tell David how to do his job. Still, there will be a lot to explain. 

“Do you have any idea how it works? What exactly we’re doing here?” David pulls a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocks the door on the second floor landing. He uses the studio space as a catch-all—for storage, for hanging out with Stevie, and today, for making a love potion.

“I have… a general idea,” Patrick says as he follows him into the room. 

The space is messier than the shop below, with twice as many windows and half the aesthetic appeal. There are boxes of candles taking up too much space, jars filled with dried herbs and flower petals, and books lining a shelf that David had to put together himself. There is a kitchenette to the left that he uses to brew both potions and coffee. David uses the space too often for it to ever be as meticulously organized as his shop downstairs. It’s unintentionally cozy and out of everywhere in Schitt’s Creek, it feels the most like home to David. Other than Stevie, and Alexis once or twice, few people have been invited up here. 

“Okay well,” David says. “There is nothing general about a love potion. It’s a very specific kind of magic.”

He gestures for Patrick to take a seat at the little used table Stevie had given him when he opened the Apothecary. He leans against the countertop, crosses his arms, and tries to explain what they’ll be doing for the next four months.

“We can break this potion down into three types of ingredients. The first type are our base ingredients, things like mandrake and rose petals. These basically establish intent—it’s what makes the potion a _love_ potion.”

“Okay,” Patrick says with an enthusiastic nod and David is given a glimpse into exactly what type of student he must have been in his college days—the kind that makes eye contact with his professor and nods along with the lesson, supplying plenty of encouragement. David finds the intrusion to be kind of rude, completely unnecessary, and regrettably charming. 

“Right,” David says. “The second kind of ingredient is what ties this potion to Rachel.” He holds his hand out, palm up, towards Patrick and he obligingly passes him the envelope containing Rachel’s hair. “Like this strand of hair. And a few other things down the line that I will need you to get.”

Patrick huffs. “Okay,” he says. “I just… don’t like sneaking around, you know? Lying to her.” David shoots him a look and Patrick amends his statement. “Any more than is strictly necessary, that it.”

“All right, well… it’s necessary.”

“Fine,” Patrick says, a bit of agitation coloring his tone. David does his best to ignore it—none of this is  _ his _ fault. “What’s the third type of ingredient?”

“The third type of ingredient is why you’re here.” David pauses for dramatic effect. The best part of being a witch, other than the magic, is the theatrics. (And the all-black-wardrobe… There might be quite a few things David likes about being a witch, as it turns out.)

“Care to elaborate?” Patrick says, after David’s pause lasts a beat too long.

“Obviously,” he says and Patrick raises his hands in mock defense. “The third type of ingredient is what actually makes the potion work for you. These ingredients are things you like—something that smells good or tastes good. Something that has meaning and value to you. It’s kind of an association game. Actually, it’s the most difficult part about brewing a love potion…  _ usually. _ Since you’re here, this part becomes a lot easier. We’ll be able to figure out what those things are together.”

“Right,” Patrick says. “That makes sense.” He studies his hands for a moment, flexing his ring finger and twisting the silver band that encircles it, like he hasn’t quite gotten used to its presence—like it doesn’t belong there.

He stands abruptly, the motion combined with the scrape of his chair making David flinch. David thinks this might be it—this might be the moment that Patrick walks out, calls the whole thing off. He almost hopes for it. Instead, Patrick turns away from his chair, away from David, and takes ten steps until he’s on the other side of the room, warm sunlight settling over his skin as he looks out the window.

Patrick looks to his right, then to his left. He turns slowly, taking in the room piece by piece—the boxes of product, the jars, the bundle of thistle and fern hanging upside down from a hook on the wall. He runs his finger along the spine of a book,  _ The Brooming Economy: Business Basics for the Entrepreneurial Witch _ (David never made it past chapter four), before moving on. 

David feels more exposed in this moment than if he were standing naked in the middle of Cafe Tropical, which… ew. Not a visual he needs.

He watches Patrick explore the room and can’t help but wonder what someone like him thinks about it all—about magic. He drifts towards some of David’s potted plants and thumbs the leaf of one of the biggest ferns. Then, finally, he turns to look at David. “So, we just… brew this potion. I drink it… and  _ bam _ ”—Patrick claps his hands together—“I’m in love with Rachel?”

The apprehension on his face sturs something in David’s gut but he does his best to ignore it. “That’s the gist, yeah.”

‘In love’ was a rather generous approximation of the effects. In reality it would be more like a strong infatuation. There would be attraction, and lust—that was what the mandrake was for—and a general pull towards the other person. Modern love potions were usually pretty successful. They’d come a long way from the burn of troubling obsession, but… to say that it was much more than a mimicry of real love would be a lie.

However, if Patrick already cared about Rachel—which David assumed he did, as he was doing this to make her happy—the potion could add just enough sizzle to their relationship to make them content for the rest of their lives. That would have to be enough.

David explains this to Patrick.

“Okay,” Patrick says. “Where do we start?”

David waves him back over to the kitchenette, where he pulls a large stock pot from one of the cabinets. He sets it on the stovetop and turns towards Patrick. “We start with her hair.”

“Huh,” Patrick says, but David can’t tell if he’s amused or confused.

“What? What ‘ _ huh _ ’? I think I’m doing a pretty good job of explaining myself.” Though David would prefer to keep things professional, he can’t help it if some agitation seeps into his voice. Fortunately, Patrick seems to find humor in David’s attitude. Huh, indeed.

“No, you are. You’re doing a great job,” he says. “It’s just… You don’t have a cauldron?” He jerks his chin towards the stainless steel pot.

“So, actually,” David begins, “cauldrons are very expensive and I’m kind of on a budget at the moment?”

“Sure, sure.” Patrick’s smile is bright, like it’s charged with sarcasm and any successful jab makes it glow. “I’m just a little disappointed I won’t be getting the full witch experience, you know?”

“Okay, well the last man who got the full witch experience bought me dinner first, so.”

If there’s any sort of heat coloring Patrick’s cheeks, David turns away before he can see it. He’s sure his own face would be warm if he hadn’t bought a spell years ago to take care of that little problem. Not that he was a master at masking his emotions, but it was nice to not worry about something so juvenile as blushing. 

It did look awfully nice on Patrick, though. David wishes he were brave enough to look, but he’d rather just pretend that he hadn’t said anything at all. He focuses, instead, on the pot in front of him.

The pot that he will use to brew a love potion. 

He’s never actually done it before, but that’s not the problem. It turns out that when David actually applies himself, when he puts in the effort… he’s exceptionally capable. It’s why he’d worked with Wendy for less than a year—it wasn’t long before he’d wrung every spell, potion, elixir, and enchantment out of her, before he had to step up and teach himself if he wanted to know more. 

No, ability is not the problem. The problem is Patrick.

David can’t shake the feeling that Patrick is going to regret this, and that he will have had a hand in it. He knows that Patrick is determined to do this, that he wants this, and that should be enough… It  _ is _ enough, David decides. This is Patrick’s business and David is merely fulfilling a business transaction. 

He’s just not used to being on the fence about something, that’s all. David is typically quick with his  _ yeses _ and his  _ nos, _ with his likes and his dislikes. So the fact that he’s stuck somewhere in the middle, that he can’t pick a side… He hates it. 

But. He  _ has _ chosen a side. He’s on Patrick’s side now, whether he likes it or not.

David shakes his head before choosing to lock it all away. He reaches down to turn on the front right burner and begins to pour water into the pot. Once it’s about halfway full, he adds a bit of salt and turns to face Patrick.

“What was that?” Patrick asks.

“Just salt,” David says.

“Okay. What does that do?” Patrick bounces on his feet, trying to peer into the pot from a good three feet away. David steps to the side, so Patrick can move in closer. 

David notes Patrick’s interest, how eager he seems to learn about the magic. It’s not lost on him that the only time Patrick becomes uncomfortable is when they talk about the magic in relation to Rachel. When the discussion is factual, methodical, Patrick almost seems to enjoy himself.

“You always salt the water, Patrick,” David says.

“Isn’t that…” Patrick pauses. He looks at David, and though his brows are drawn down in confusion, there’s a twinkle in his eye. “Isn’t that pasta, though?”

“Um, there’s actually a lot of overlap?” David grabs a wooden spoon from a rather sparse canister of kitchen utensils. He dips it into the pot and gives it a perfunctory stir before setting it across the top. “The first thing they teach you when you study magic is how to make a good pasta dish. My personal favorite is penne alla vodka.”

Patrick stares. “I can’t tell if you're messing with me.”

David tucks his smile into his cheek and pretends to adjust the heat. “Once this begins to boil, we’ll add the hair.”

Once that’s done, Patrick really doesn’t need to stick around. As it is, the sun has set by the time David closes the Apothecary doors behind him. 

* * *

It’s a week later when Patrick comes back.

In the meantime, David has been watching the potion brew, keeping a steady heat going throughout the day, but allowing it to cool at night (like a responsible business owner who knows not to leave the stove on when no one is in the building,  _ Alexis. _ ) In addition to the hair, David has added a couple of other base ingredients: a few pieces of chopped up mandrake, three rose petals, and a little bit of fern. 

He needs to consult Patrick before he adds anything else.

David refrains from saying anything, but Patrick looks tired. He all but falls into the chair when David unlocks the door to the upstairs to let him in. His limbs seem weighed down, like every movement takes just a bit more energy than he has. David feels comfortable assuming it has nothing to do with anything he could reasonably ask about. Patrick is an adult—that’s reason enough to be tired, right? So David doesn’t ask.

“I can make coffee,” he offers.

Patrick shakes his head. “Tea?” he asks.

“Black or green?”

“Black, please.”

David makes coffee for himself and tea for Patrick and lets the silence settle around them. It’s not an awkward silence, but neither is it the comfortable quiet shared between friends. Not that it should be, David thinks. They’re  _ not _ friends.

As he fixes their drinks, his back to Patrick, he asks, “So what are you looking for in a relationship?” He only looks over his shoulder when Patrick doesn’t say anything. “I mean, I’m not just making small talk. We’ve got to add a few more base ingredients and it would be nice to know if I should add freesia for trust or daffodils for respect.”

“Both?” Patrick says. He looks unsure.

“Well, of course,” David says. He sets Patrick’s tea down in front of him. “I just mean… On a more specific level, how is it you want this potion to make you feel?”

“Oh,” Patrick says. “I don’t actually… I was hoping you would fill in the details.”

“Right.” David grabs his journal and a pencil and sets them on the table. “I could, but considering you’re paying for it, I thought you might have an opinion. This potion is affecting  _ you, _ not me. I thought you might want a say in what your marriage will look like for the next fifty years.”

“Fifty years, right.” Patrick mutters. David does the professional thing and lets the words evaporate into the silence.

He pulls out the chair across from Patrick, and as he settles his weight into it, it wobbles forward and he nearly spills his coffee. He scowls, but before he can even set his coffee down, Patrick is on his knees and shoving a quarter under the one stunted leg. 

David tests the chair, shifting his weight from side to side. It’s not perfect, but it is marginally better. 

“Thank you,” David whispers. He’s oddly touched by the gesture, but… “But if you really wanted to be a gentleman, you would offer to switch chairs.”

Patrick ignores the roundabout request, sitting rather firmly and dramatically into the one good chair. “I’m not a gentleman, David. I’m an accountant.”

“Hm,” David says, biting his lip against his smile. “Better pay?”

“Better benefits, too.”

David wonders about what kind of person Patrick is when he’s not trying to deceive his fiancee. He truly doesn’t seem like the deceitful type—the judgement sounds harsh, even in David’s mind. He thinks Patrick is probably a lot nicer than first impressions had led him to believe. It’s the eyes. 

They sip their beverages in silence and it’s almost… nice. If David squints, if he ignores the bubbling budget-cauldron, he can pretend that he and Patrick  _ are _ friends, that they meet once a week to discuss… local gossip or something. Not that Patrick seems much like the gossiping type, but David sure is.

He wants to settle into the daydream, the idea of it almost as warm as the mug in his hands. Of course, he can’t allow himself to do that. He opens to a blank page in his journal and looks expectantly at Patrick.

“So?” he says.

“So,” Patrick drains the last of his tea. “I want… I guess I want to be someone Rachel can depend on. I want to be reliable and stable.”

David writes  _ gladiolus _ on the top of the page. “What else?”

“Patience?” Patrick says. “And… I don’t know, companionship? David, please don’t laugh at me.”

He hadn’t meant to, but… As he added  _ aster _ to the list, he couldn’t help but let a small chuckle—more of a giggle really—escape his mouth. It wasn’t  _ funny, _ it was just…  _ sweet. _ Patrick was sweet and well-intentioned, and he behaved exactly like someone who learned about love from his white-picket-fence parents but had never felt it himself—which was probably an accurate assessment. 

“I’m not! I’m sorry, those all sound great… for  _ Rachel, _ mostly. But what do  _ you _ want, Patrick?”

“I want to be those things  _ for _ Rachel.”

David sighs. “I’m not the best judge of character, seriously you should see my dating record, but it sounds kind of like you already are? Those things? To add them to the potion—I’ll do it, if it’s what you want, but… it might be a waste. Isn’t there anything—”

“I don’t know David! What does everyone want out of a relationship?” Patrick says, and David is sure at first that he’s being rhetorical, but when his fraught, wide-eyed expression doesn’t subside, David thinks he might  _ actually _ be asking.

As if  _ David _ would know.

“I don’t…” David starts. “Look, I’ve only ever wanted  _ attention, _ so I’m not really someone you should come to for advice on long-lasting, fulfilling relationships.”

Patrick huffs, and the sound is somewhere halfway between a laugh and a sigh, like he wants to find humor in what David is saying, but some part of it hits too close to home.

“I find it hard to believe that catching someone’s attention is very difficult for you.”

“Catching it? No, but… keeping it is another thing entirely.” David’s surprised by how vulnerable he suddenly feels. He swallows the last of his coffee and looks at the empty mug like it’s betrayed him.

“I’ve had Rachel’s undivided attention for over ten years,” Patrick says. It’s the quiet way he says it that tells David he’s not bragging, he’s… grieving. 

_ Ten years, _ David thinks. He doubts he can scrape together even five years worth of attention from the hundreds of scraps he’s been left with. Would it be inconsiderate to tell Patrick how lucky he is to have someone so devoted to him? David figures he must already know—why else would he be here, if not in an attempt to give a fraction of that devotion back?

David keeps his mouth shut.

The silence settles thick around them and they both cling to their empty mugs, the last ceramic defense against total exposure.

“Humor,” Patrick says. “That’s the best part of my relationship with Rachel. When we laugh together… it feels closest to how things should be. I want that feeling.”

That’s the kind of introspection David had been looking for—the more specific the feeling, all the better it was for the love potion. He just hadn’t expected Patrick’s confessions, his revelations, to leave him so unsettled. David’s own personal baggage was making this entire endeavor much more difficult than he expected. 

He wants Patrick to have that feeling, but he wants it for himself, too.

_ Delphinium and water-lily. _ He adds it to the list.

“Anything else?” David asks.

“What would you add?” Patrick looks at him with wide eyes and when he sets his mug down, David unconsciously mirrors the gesture.

“I haven’t thought about it,” David says. 

“At all?”

David  _ hasn’t _ thought about it—not so directly anyway. He had never expected to make a love potion, and so he had never considered the ingredients he would use. He has, however, been working with flowers and plants and magic for a few years now. He knows what they mean and what they do, and he knows which ones stand out to him.

Another thing he doesn't know is whether or not he wants to say anything to Patrick. He’s already let a lot of vulnerability slip through today, and he fears that the more he reveals of himself the more shame and regret he’ll feel later. That was the pattern he trended towards. When had letting someone in ever actually benefited him? Stevie’s face flashes in his mind, but he wills it away. One isolated incident is not enough to inspire confidence in the process.

Patrick is still watching him, waiting for an answer. 

David almost says  _ why do you want to know?  _

Instead he says, “Hydrangeas, maybe.”

Patrick tilts his head and the corner of his mouth tugs up, just slightly. “Ah, yes,” he says. “Right.”

David wonders how long they could stare at each other, how long before Patrick would give in and ask. He’s smug, David realizes. He’s met so few people who can match his level of stubbornness, and David thinks that were they to go head-to-head, he might actually lose. To save them both the time, he concedes.

“Understanding,” he says. “Hydrangeas symbolize understanding. Being seen.”

It’s a feeling that had eluded David for nearly his entire life—he’d only encountered it for the first time once he came to Schitt’s Creek, once he met Stevie and started to repair his relationship with his family. It comes in glimpses now—a moment when his own cynicism aligns perfectly with Stevie’s, or when he and Alexis gang up on their parents or commiserate about some odd childhood memory that’s only relatable to the two of them.

Still, David wants someone to see all of him, to contend with his burnt and gooey insides and still think it’s worth staying. 

Something flashes in Patrick’s eyes and David thinks it might be recognition. 

What is it that Rachel doesn’t understand, then? What doesn’t she see when she looks at Patrick? David wonders if Patrick sees Rachel. How much of what’s missing between them is one sided? And is it Patrick’s fault? Or Rachel’s?

David raises an eyebrow, and after a subtle nod from Patrick, he adds hydrangeas to the list.

It’s simple enough to add the various petals to the potion. David takes a few days to dry them, before Patrick returns to the Apothecary. After David demonstrates how to properly use a mortar and pestle, Patrick insists on crushing at least some of the petals himself. He’s a natural, of course—his grip is perfect, he’s intensely focused, and the circular motion of the pestle nearly hypnotizes David. 

Patrick works the petals into a powder, which he then gives to David to sprinkle into the potion. There’s a faint aroma and a pinkish tint and finally the potion starts to look like something resembling Twyla’s cream of radish soup, albeit with a slightly smoother consistency. 

* * *

Patrick—surprise, surprise—is always on time, if not infuriatingly early. And it is  _ infuriating _ for David, because when Patrick shows up fifteen minutes early, he hangs out in the shop and watches David work. David feels like he is performing for an audience of one— _ no audience too small, _ he hears his mother say—and the constant, focused attention makes him uneasy.

It’s not that Patrick  _ only _ watches David—he’s not  _ staring, _ it’s not  _ creepy _ —but in between small talk with David’s customers and snooping amongst the products, Patrick’s eyes do periodically drift towards David. And yes, David understands the irony—he knows he wouldn’t even notice Patrick looking if David didn’t also, almost habitually, seek out Patrick too. 

It’s distracting. If David has to close like this, it will take forever. He can only imagine Patrick watching as David sweeps the floor—how many broom jokes could he handle before he uses it to smack Patrick in the head?

He fishes for his keys, pulling the entire ring out of his pocket and handing it to Patrick. “You can head upstairs,” he says. “I’ll be up soon.”

“Oh,” Patrick says. “Sure.”

As soon as Patrick disappears around the curtain, it’s easier to focus. It’s not that David doesn’t want him here—in fact, hadn’t he played some part in it all? Not without prompting, of course, but he had  _ possibly _ exaggerated the necessity of Patrick’s presence today. 

Only, David is pretty sure Patrick knew that—that Patrick had wanted an excuse, however flimsy, to come to the Apothecary today. David’s not sure why—whether Patrick doesn’t want to be around Rachel, or if he really just happened to have free time—but something has changed. It’s hard to ignore the thrill David gets, knowing someone would choose to spend their free time with him. It’s a character flaw, sure, one he’s always had. 

It’s desperate, David thinks. But, desperation loves company and David does too, especially when said company has great arms and a better sense of humor.

Patrick had asked David yesterday, as they were saying goodbye, if there were something more he could help with today. He’d said it so casually and David had been about to say “no, see you next week,” when the words stuck in his throat and left a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. He didn’t want to see Patrick next week, or rather he  _ did, _ but he also wanted to see him sooner, like… immediately. 

The feeling had thrown him, at first. He couldn’t name it, or didn’t  _ want _ to name it, but in the moment it took for the initial shock of it to fade, David was able to come up with a reason for Patrick to return. 

“Actually,” David said, “I could use your help… stirring.”

“Stirring? I didn’t know that was a two man job.”

“It’s not… really.” David swallowed. He had felt about as transparent as Alexis’s Isabel Marant striped chiffon dress. “It’s just… very precise, and if I had, you know, someone there to  _ count…” _

“Ah,” Patrick said, “I _ am _ pretty good with numbers.”

David had had approximately twenty one and a half hours to get over his embarrassment, which historically, wasn’t enough time by half. And then Patrick had shown up  _ earlier _ than expected, so David feels a little lost. He hasn’t had nearly enough time to analyze any of these new feelings, or if they’re even  _ new _ at all.

When had he started to look forward to closing the Apothecary, not so he could go home, but because he would be seeing Patrick? David can’t remember when their teasing had transformed almost entirely into flirting.

David locks the store and does a rushed clean-up that will surely bite him in the ass in the morning, but he feels no guilt about it—and there are no doe-eyed witnesses to judge him anyway.

He’s halfway up the stairs when he smells coffee. He stops for a second, just to appreciate the smell. And maybe to appreciate the gesture itself. No one who wasn’t wearing an apron had made him coffee in a long time. Stevie laughs in his face anytime he asks.

He pushes through the door a second later and Patrick is already sitting at the table, his mug of tea resting in his hands. David’s coffee is sitting on the table too, the shaker of cocoa powder right next to it.

“Hi,” Patrick says. “Uh, skim milk and two sugars right? I didn’t know how much cocoa powder you usually put so I just… left it.”

He actually looks sheepish, like the fact that he hadn’t completed the last step of David’s very particular coffee configuration negated all the steps that came before it.

“That’s fine—that’s good,” David says, because what else is there to say?  _ Oh.  _ “Thank you,” he adds.

The smile that blooms on Patrick’s face isn’t sharp or bright, the way it is when he teases—the one that David’s become accustomed to, has learned to look forward to. It’s gentle, maybe shy. Either way, it’s clear that Patrick is pleased to have pleased David—and that in turn, pleases David even more.

David takes the cocoa powder in his hand, turns it over, and taps the bottom twice. It leaves the perfect amount of chocolatey coating on the top of his coffee. Patrick watches and David is left with the strange feeling that, should Patrick make his coffee again, he won’t forget the cocoa powder. 

David licks the extra powder from the rim of his mug and Patrick watches that too. 

They sit and talk while they drink, and even after their mugs are empty, they sit for a while longer.

It’s almost painful to break their flow of conversation, but David’s committed to at least pretending they are here for more than a tea party.

“So,” David says. He stands.

“Right.” Patrick stands too. “Stirring.”

David knows the method by heart—most potions have strict stirring guidelines and a slim margin of error. Clockwise or counterclockwise, sometimes alternating. Sometimes it only takes fifteen to twenty good stirs, sometimes it takes more. 

A love potion requires three hundred counterclockwise stirs in between each phase. 

So while David could do it alone, it's nice to have Patrick standing beside him. Their arms brush occasionally as David stirs, but neither adjust their positions.

“Forty-four, forty-five, forty-six…”

The process is repetitive and familiar, and with the low-pitched, steady pace of Patrick’s counting, David could imagine himself drifting into a trance, however… The warmth of Patrick’s body and the tingle of his breath on David’s neck leave David feeling more alert than he’s felt all day. Though, he supposes, it  _ could _ be the coffee. 

The flutter in his stomach is not so easy to explain away, but David can try. He refuses to acknowledge it for what it is. David has always hated moths, and what are butterflies if not the moth’s sexier cousin?

“One-eighty-nine, one-ninety, one-ninety-one…”

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone! Enjoy!

David’s beginning to suspect that he and Patrick might actually be… friends, or something. Regardless of what name he gives it, their relationship has definitely progressed far beyond professional.

He would certainly  _ like _ for them to be friends. It’d be nice to have another Stevie—someone to spend time with, someone to joke with, someone to—well, maybe his friendship with Patrick won’t be  _ exactly _ like his friendship with Stevie. Because he and Stevie slept together and, of course, he and Patrick will  _ not _ be doing that.

Because Patrick is getting married. How is it so easy to forget?

Patrick is getting married and yet—he’s spending almost all of his freetime with David. Between work and wedding arrangements, he pops into the Apothecary upwards of four times a week. Sometimes they don’t even make it upstairs. They just spend their time in the shop… talking. Patrick asks David about the different products he sells—where he gets them or how he makes them, how the magic works—and David has taken to asking Patrick for business advice. 

It becomes another reason for Patrick to spend time at the Apothecary.

“I thought I could help you with inventory,” he says as he pushes up his sleeves and what else can David do but nod?

They work well together—like a team. Patrick is focused and dedicated—he doesn’t let David get away with being lazy, or put things off until tomorrow, like he’s so often inclined—but he’s fun, too. He never passes up an opportunity to tease David and sometimes he hums while he restocks products—and if David lowers the volume of the store’s music in order to better hear him, Patrick seems to take it as encouragement. It makes time pass quicker, somehow, and David mourns the way hours seem to pass in seconds.

The opposite seems to be true when there are other people around.

Patrick had shown up around 4:45, which David would normally take as incentive to close early, but today… today Darlene and her cousin just won’t leave. It’s 5:12 and the two women are still arguing over which spell will be more effective in allowing Darlene to talk to her dog. David is tempted to slip them both a potion that will turn them  _ into _ dogs, but well… That wouldn’t be great for ‘encouraging customer loyalty’.

David just wants to be alone with Patrick. He feels much less guilty about flirting with an almost-married man when there’s no one around to see it.

He can’t tell if Patrick feels the same buzzing anticipation, the same bitter aggravation—but then again, why would he? He neither holds any grudge towards Darlene, nor craves their time alone, surely.

_ Almost-married. _

David should offer Patrick a rain-check, should tell him to go home to Rachel. He would do it, too, if he could somehow unclench his jaw. He’s about to open his mouth—he  _ is _ —when Patrick looks at him and holds up a small, white jar.

“What is this?” he asks.

“That,” David says, squinting to better see the label, “is a hydrating cream for your face.”

“Right, but what does it do?”

“It’s a moisturizer.” David’s not surprised Patrick knows nothing about skincare. Maybe after they’ve finished the love potion, David can convince Patrick to come back under the guise of putting together a personalized skincare routine. Maybe he’ll put something together for Rachel, too.

“So it’s not… magical?” Patrick asks.

“It’s  _ magical _ how soft your skin will feel after only a week of consistent use—apply a thin layer in the morning and another at night.”

Brenda, a local farm witch, supplies the entire skin-care line. David mostly stocks it out of self interest—there are so few quality skin products available in and around Schitt’s Creek. If it’s also beneficial to form working relationships within the local witch community, that’s just a bonus in David’s eyes.

“So,” Patrick says, and the smile already blooming across his face lets David know he’s about to be mocked, or teased, or poked at in some fashion, “Here at Rose Apothecary, you sell  _ potions _ and  _ lotions?” _

“Okay,” David says, with a half-hearted scowl to let Patrick know his joke has done its job, “have you been hanging out with Ted?”

“No David,” Patrick says. “Just you.”

Normally David might preen under the sentiment—how long had he waited to be the singular object of someone’s attention? However, he shouldn’t be monopolizing quite so much of  _ Patrick’s _ attention, no matter how badly he wants it all. The way Patrick’s words warm his face feels more like a slap than a blush. It sends a jolt of guilt down David’s spine.

“You should go,” David says, but the words are harsh and he finds he doesn’t mean them. “I mean,” he says, “You  _ could _ go.”

“What?” Patrick asks. “You want me to leave?”

“No, I  _ don’t. _ But this—” David’s eyes flick to Darlene, “—is taking longer than expected.”  _ And you should get back to your future wife. _

“Ah,” Patrick says. There’s a bounce to his step as he disappears from beside David and makes his way towards Darlene. David understands what’s happening a moment too late, and can do nothing but mutter a sharp  _ Patrick! _ under his breath. 

He closes his eyes against what he is sure will be a trainwreck, but… he blinks them back open when he hears laughter. Darlene’s cousin is laughing—and not a maniacal, villainous,  _ you’ll never get away with this _ laugh, but a genuine…  _ laugh. _ Huh. 

David’s first interaction with Darlene’s cousin involved being verbally assaulted in front of his store on opening day. That first interaction was also their  _ best _ interaction. He wants to hold against Patrick the fact that he’s better at David’s job than David is, but… He knows Patrick’s charm too well to ever blame someone else for falling prey to it.

Patrick leads the two women over to the cash, clucking like hens all the while, and within three minutes they’re out the door. He assumes they’ll be back tomorrow, to return the product or else complain about it, but at the moment, he can only feel relief that they’re gone.

Patrick flips the lock and they’re  _ finally _ alone.

“How did you do that?” David asks.

“It’s called customer service, David. It’s when you actually interact with your customers and, you know,  _ serve _ them.”

“Mhm,” David says. He squints his eyes and looks down his nose at Patrick. “It’s just… I like to take a more casual approach? You know, let them wander for a bit, look around. If they have questions, they know where to find me.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you let customers in the back room.” Patrick crosses his arms, tilts his head, and smirks.

“I don’t—Patrick that was  _ one _ time!”

“David, there were three people waiting to pay and you were  _ asleep.” _

In David’s defense, the store had been empty when he’d wandered into the back room, planning to just sit for a couple of minutes. Thirty minutes later, Patrick was leaning over him shaking him awake. It was quite jarring, actually, to be woken by the very person you had just been dreaming about. 

“It’s a good thing you were here then,” David says. 

“Seems that way,” Patrick responds. He gives David a perfect smile and a less than perfect wink, before picking up the broom to sweep the floors. David’s dazed for a moment—he feels so warm inside he’s concerned his shoes might melt to the floor—but he pulls himself together enough to finish closing in sufficient time. 

Patrick is determined to stay, and David can’t say he’s entirely unhappy about it. Recently, his days never feel  _ quite _ complete without Patrick in them, which is a terrifying development. David had learned from a young age not to depend on anyone or anything—and he knows he  _ can't _ depend on Patrick.

Patrick is  _ Rachel’s _ to depend on,  _ Rachel’s _ to love. He may not even be in David’s life two months from now, so what’s the use getting attached?

Patrick hands the broom back to David, squeezing his arm as he passes. David follows him upstairs.

It’s become a part of their routine to sit together, David with his coffee and Patrick with his tea, for a while before they get any work done. The time seems to stretch later and later each subsequent week and David is grateful for the excuse to invite Patrick around more often, to finish anything they aren’t able to squeeze in.

“I have something,” Patrick says. He sets what looks like a jar of dirt on the table between them. He taps the lid and a faint, tinny thud meets David’s ears. “I thought we could use it in the potion.”

“Um, what—what is it?” David tries not to scrunch his face in disgust.

“It’s dirt.”

“Yes, got that. Thank you.”

“Um, it’s from—there’s this trail I’ve been hiking since… since the proposal. It’s helped a lot, I think. There’s this really breathtaking overlook and… when I’m there, everything sort of stops, you know?”

“No,” David admits. He doesn’t think he’s ever experienced anything quite like that—at least not without the assistance of alcohol.

“You should come, sometime.”

David laughs. “I don’t hike, but… thank you.” Though the very thought of setting foot on a  _ trail _ nauseates David, he can appreciate the gesture for what it is—Patrick extending his privacy to David, an offer to share the stillness with him. It's  _ nice. _ David can be nice. “Do you want to tell me about it?” he asks.

“Um, yeah,” Patrick says. “I do.”

His eyes twinkle as he describes the way the earth smells and how the fresh air feels against his skin. When Patrick mentions the way the sunlight winks through the canopy of leaves, David can almost imagine enjoying it. Talking about it changes Patrick’s face, brightening it like just the memory of exercise makes him feel invigorated. 

“—and when you reach the top, the view… it’s an entirely new perspective. You feel…” Patrick trails off, searching for the right word.

“Small?” David supplies.

“No,” Patrick says. “Kind of the opposite, actually. I feel big, like what I do matters, even if it only matters to me.”

“Oh,” David says.

“It was actually… I was there, you know, at the overlook when I made the decision to try a love potion. So really, if it weren’t for my hikes we never would have met.” He smiles at David, in that cheeky sort of way. Like, _ ha ha you have hiking to thank for one of the most important relationships in your life. _ Friendships. One of the most import—hm. David bites his lip.

As charming as Patrick’s teasing is, David’s mind holds steadfast to his earlier confession. 

“So you were on this mountain, feeling… big, and you thought ‘hey, a love potion sounds like a good idea!’” David tries not to sound like he’s mocking Patrick, but he’s not entirely sure how successful he is.

“Yeah,” Patrick says. He forces a smile, but soon after it turns into a grimace. He presses his lips into a firm line and casts his eyes downwards. He takes the jar of dirt and mindlessly shuffles it from one hand to the other, before placing it back down. When he speaks again, the waver in his voice tugs like it has a direct line to David’s heart. “I had been thinking about calling it all off. The engagement.”

“You don’t have to tell me this,” David says. It’s a stupid thing to say, bordering on heartless, because theres a desperate undercurrent in Patrick’s voice that means he obviously wants to talk about it, but it’s a better alternative to what David had almost said: _ you still can.  _ The words sit heavy and neglected on David’s tongue.

“I want to,” Patrick says. His voice has regained some of its confidence, but the question in his eyes betrays his faux determination. 

David can’t speak, so he nods instead.

“I was so unsure about a future with Rachel, so scared of… feeling like this for the rest of my life. We had broken up so many times and each time it—it broke her heart. I think it broke something in me too.” Patrick runs his hand through his hair and glances briefly at David. “I realized neither of us could go on this way. I could either end it, or… find a permanent way to fix it.”

“And here you are.”

“Here I am.” Patrick leans forward in his chair and stairs directly at David, like he’s begging him to understand. “A future with Rachel terrifies me, David. But a future without her? I can’t even imagine it.”

For the longest time, a future with  _ anyone _ seemed out of reach for David. Now that he has Stevie, now that he has his family, he can understand where Patrick’s fear comes from. It’s a heavy thing to carry.

David can’t discredit how important it is that Patrick has  _ chosen _ Rachel—for the success of the potion, but also, David thinks, for the success of their relationship. David can't be sure, but he’s always heard that choosing to love someone is almost as important as actually loving them. 

David blinks against the sudden, stinging pressure behind his eyes. If this is Patrick’s path to happiness, well… David is merely here to point him in the right direction. 

As for the jar of dirt—It’s actually a very good idea. The fact that it’s a substance of the earth, alone, has power. There are rich and nurturing properties to soil that can benefit a whole slew of magical practices. Even better, it’s from a location that has a lot of meaning to Patrick, that he has interacted with in both a physical and psychological way. But it’s still…  _ dirt. _

“You know you’ll still have to drink this, right?” David asks.

“David,” Patrick laughs through his name and the sound is like a shock to David’s system. “The first ingredient was  _ human hair. _ I think we’re well past following CFIA regulations.”

“Your tastebuds, not mine,” David says, and he thinks Patrick’s eyes dart briefly to his mouth, which is… Well, it’s a completely normal, nothing gesture, but it still triggers something in David’s stomach. He’s grasping at moments, he knows, but he can’t seem to stop.

It might be truer to say he doesn’t  _ want _ to stop. He doesn’t want to stop hoping that there might be something more than just a love potion brewing between them. 

* * *

“So what are we doing today, Sabrina?” Patrick settles into his chair and David marvels at how comfortable he looks, how well he fits into David’s environment. Sure, his blue button-ups might clash with the earthy aesthetic, but for once, David doesn’t mind—mixing patterns is hard, but when you find the right combination, the result can be dramatic and exciting. 

“I think of myself as more of a Hilda, actually?” David says. He tosses a smile over his shoulder, as he fiddles with the stove-top temperature.

“The goofy one?”

“She is not  _ goofy, _ ” David objects. He turns around to face Patrick. “She is fun and sexy.” He shimmies his shoulders, and the way Patrick’s eyes light up at the movement makes  _ David _ feel fun and sexy.

“Well, I will…” Patrick clears his throat. “I will take your word for it.”

David turns back around before he allows himself to smile, like he’s keeping a secret. And isn’t he? Everything that he’s feeling—he only wants to share it with the one person he can never tell. 

“We’re working on scent today,” he says. 

“Scent?”

“A powerful and underappreciated sense. It has strong ties to memory and attraction. We need to figure out what scent profile you like.”

David runs the wooden spoon through the potion once, just to agitate things, before tapping off the excess and setting the spoon down. He places the lid on the pot and allows the potion to simmer. He wipes his hands and joins Patrick at the table.

“Okay,” Patrick says, shifting in his chair. “Well I really like the smell of freshly cut grass.”

“Of course you do.”

It’s such an obvious cliche, and if it were anyone else, David might roll his eyes. Actually, David  _ does _ roll his eyes, but… despite his jockish tendencies, he still thinks Patrick is cute.

Patrick takes David’s teasing better than anyone—he seems to bloom under it, honestly, like it's a compliment after a lifetime of insults. 

“And coffee,” Patrick says, after a moment, like he’d been thinking about it.

“You don’t drink coffee.” David shakes his head. He has offered Patrick coffee on multiple occasions, and Patrick always chooses tea. He would know if Patrick were harboring some secret addiction.

“No,” Patrick says. He meets David’s eyes. “I don’t.”

“Okay,” David whispers. “Coffee and  _ grass _ .” He visibly cringes. “Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of, no.”

It’s not enough to build the potion, but it’s a start. If they can come up with two or three more scents, that should be enough. 

“Okay,” David says, “let me gather some things.”

He stands and walks over to the cabinet where he stores a lot of his ingredients: flowers, herbs, spices. He selects a variety of things—some that he thinks Patrick will like, and others that he’s almost sure Patrick will hate, but might be fun to try anyway.

“Close your eyes,” David commands, as he approaches the table again.

“What? Why?” Patrick twists in his chair to look up at David.

“To focus on the scent,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Obviously.”

Patrick huffs, and it’s part laugh, part resistance to being told what to do, but he  _ does _ do it. He faces forward in his chair and closes his eyes. David takes more than a moment to study his face, the way his eyelashes fan across his cheeks, the gentle set of his mouth, and lower—the way his throat flexes when he swallows, the width of his shoulders. David could catalogue the details of Patrick Brewer for hours.

When he drags his gaze back to Patrick's face, Patrick is watching him. 

“Close them,” David says, ignoring the embarrassment burning inside of him. Patrick smiles before obeying.

David selects a sprig of pine, a clean scent—something easy to start with. He waves it in front of Patrick’s face, and waits for a verdict. Patrick doesn’t say anything.

“Well?” David prompts.

“It’s nice,” Patrick says, “but… I don’t know. What am I supposed to be… looking for, here?”

“I told you—we’re trying to create a scent profile that plays to your—”

“No, I know David, I just—” Patrick sighs. “Like I said, it’s nice. But it doesn’t… turn me on, or anything.”

“I’m not trying to—to turn you on, Patrick,” David stutters.  _ If only. _ “We’re… Okay close your eyes again—”

“David—”

“Just trust me. Close them.”

“Okay,” Patrick says. He closes his eyes again, but there’s agitation written in the lines of his face this time. David recognizes it as the frustration Patrick so often exhibits when something doesn’t come easy to him. 

“Now,” David says, “think about freshly cut grass, the smell, the memories. Really try to focus.”

Patrick nods. He sighs, and with the action he drops his shoulders. David lets the quiet settle around them. He watches as it seeps into Patrick, and Patrick’s features transform with the peace. He takes slow, methodical breaths through his nose, and after a minute, the corners of his mouth turn up, almost imperceptibly.

“There!” David says, obliterating the calm they had only just created. Patrick flinches in his seat.

“What!” he says. “Where?”

“That feeling! That’s what we want!”

“All right,” Patrick says, but he doesn’t look convinced. “I’ll try.”

David takes him through a few more options, ranging from cinnamon to peonies to rosemary. He’s neutral on all of them. It’s only when David holds a vanilla bean under his nose that he hums in delight and opens his eyes.

“I like that,” he says. “Smells like homemade cookies.”

“But does it  _ turn you on? _ ” David says. He doesn’t know how safe it is to joke about, but he can’t resist. 

Patrick immediately laughs. “Yes, David. Baked goods really get me going.”

“Me too,” David says. Patrick’s shoulders shake with laughter and David feels the need to clarify. “Unfortunately, I think only one of us is joking.”

Patrick shakes his head, like David exasperates him, but there’s a certain  _ something  _ sparkling in his eyes that betrays his fondness. David wants to live in that look forever, burrow deep into it, and hibernate for the winter—the warmth will surely keep him comfortable.

“Close,” David says, and Patrick closes his eyes again.

David chooses lavender next. He’s just bringing it up to Patrick’s nose when Patrick pulls away.

“Ugh, no,” he says, opening his eyes. “Rachel used to have a perfume like that. I hated it.”

“Okay,” David says. He puts down the lavender and mentally crosses it off the list.

Patrick is getting better at the game—before David has to remind him, he’s got his eyes closed. David takes the opportunity to scoot his chair fractionally closer—his arm is getting tired, and this way he can lean it on the table for support. That’s the only reason, of course.

“Try this,” David says. He holds a mint leaf between them and Patrick leans into it a bit before inhaling through his nose.

“Hm,” he says, tilting his head from side to side. “I don’t think—wait, what’s…” and before David can do anything to stop it, Patrick is leaning in even more, dangerously close, until his nose is mere inches from David’s neck. 

David stills. Patrick’s face is  _ right there _ and no personal boundary has ever been broken in a more terrifying way. David can feel his breath against his bare skin as he exhales, and on the inhale, Patrick hums. 

“What’s that?” he asks.

David swallows. It does nothing to help him and when he speaks, his gravelly voice breaks the silence like a punch. “That’s me.”

Patrick’s eyes pop open in alarm and he immediately leans away. He takes his warmth with him, the heat that David had basked in immediately blooms in flames across Patrick’s face and curls itself up and around his ears.

“Oh,” Patrick says. “I’m—” He clears his throat. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s… uh, let me…” David stands and disappears to the other side of the room.

They both need a moment to calm down. They’re both embarrassed, and David is also very turned on—he doesn’t know which heat is more uncomfortable, the burn on the back of his neck that has him tugging at his collar, or the scorching lust boiling in his gut. 

This  _ can’t _ happen, he reminds himself. It  _ won’t _ happen.

He takes a deep breath in, like Twyla had taught him, and holds it for a few seconds before expelling it along with every uncomfortable emotion he feels crawling under his skin. It hasn’t worked before and it doesn’t work now. 

David grabs some dried bergamot and returns to Patrick. He looks just as unsettled as David feels, which only makes it worse. It was nobody’s fault, but David still feels like he crossed a line. He shouldn’t have been sitting so close—if he’d actually committed to the work-out routine Alexis put together for him, he might have developed more arm strength and he wouldn’t be in this situation right now. Though, in his defense, Alexis should have known not to start him off with so many lunges. He’ll find a way to punish her for this later.

“Here,” David says. “It’s bergamot.”

This time Patrick doesn’t close his eyes when he leans in, and when he smells the bergamot it’s with a short sniff. He leans back in his chair and doesn’t meet David’s eyes, but still he nods.

Patrick leaves early that evening.

* * *

The Apothecary has been swamped with patrons the entire day, which is not unusual for a Saturday, but David had hardly managed to scrape together ten minutes to eat his lunch. He’s hungry and grumpy and tired but miraculously, he is able to lock the doors and flip the sign five minutes early. 

He’s sweeping the floor and dreaming about sleeping the entire Sunday away when he hears a tap on the door.

David knows, with his luck, that the clock does not yet read 5 PM, that he won’t be able to argue against re-opening his store for whatever unhinged townie has it out for him today. It’s probably Bob, coming around to ask David to list all of the ingredients in his invisibility potion, which he will then relay to Gwen, who will  _ not _ be interested. In the fraction of a second before he looks up, David curses the day he decided to run this store on his own. 

His scowl immediately falls away when he sees Patrick peeking through the glass. The dread that had pooled in his gut is replaced by something lighter, something that tickles. If he could unlock the door with a snap of his fingers, he would. Unfortunately, he has yet to learn that bit of magic and is left fumbling with his key ring in his haste to let Patrick in.

“Uh, hi?” David says, once he finally manages to yank the door open. “ Did I know you were coming today? I don’t think there’s—”

“No, no.” Patrick says. He steps inside. “Um, I just thought… Rachel’s got plans with her bridesmaids tonight and… Do you want to grab something to eat?”

“You mean like dinner? You want to get dinner?” David asks. He doesn’t tag  _ with me _ to the end, but he thinks it.

“Well, we could do breakfast, but there’s a lot of time to kill between now and 7 AM, and I’m kind of hungry, so…”

David’s thoughts drift between the myriad of ways they could spend a night together  _ killing time _ and how horrible it is that Patrick thinks 7 AM is an appropriate time to eat breakfast.

“Right, of course.”

“But if you already have plans…”

“No,” David says, a titch too fast.  _ Desperate, _ he thinks. “I mean  _ yes _ , let’s get dinner.”

When Patrick shows up at the same time the following week, neither of them acknowledge that what they’re doing feels an awful lot like dating. 

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the easiest chapter to write, and also probably the one I'm most pleased with? Anyway, buckle up!
> 
> Also, here's something fun: tell me your favorite kind of pasta in the comments :)

When Patrick breezes into the store early on a Sunday, he’s wide awake and perfectly put together. Patrick is obviously a morning person, which isn’t all that fair—he had convinced David to show up on his day off, the least Patrick could do was act like this was an inconvenience for him as well. 

And David would cling to that notion, that this  _ was _ an inconvenience, even if it hadn’t taken Patrick more than two minutes to persuade him. He would never admit that he had been looking forward to it every minute since he locked the doors to the Apothecary last night. He’d set an alarm to make sure he woke up on time—on a  _ Sunday. _

David is about to make some teasing remark about how Patrick had severely cut into his beauty sleep, and how that should thus mean that Patrick owes him, when Patrick wordlessly hands David a plastic bag. It’s heavy in his hands and though it’s not a bag from the cafe, David briefly wonders if Patrick has brought him pancakes. 

He unties the bag as Patrick watches, a delicate but self-satisfied smile on his face. David pulls out a container and raises it to eye level in order to properly examine its contents. It’s pasta.

“Penne alla vodka,” Patrick says. “I made it last night for—well, I thought you’d like to try it.” There’s a tinge of pink blooming on the apples of his cheek, and David wants to taste that more than he wants the pasta—which is an entirely inappropriate thought to have about a man less than a week out from his own wedding, but he might as well add it to the growing pile. All of his inappropriate thoughts were about Patrick these days.

“I love penne alla vodka,” David says.

“I know, you said.” Patrick bows his head and tucks his hands into his pockets.

David had said that  _ months _ ago, and Patrick had somehow preemptively tucked that piece of information away in his mind, like he couldn’t wait for the opportunity to use it. It’s become increasingly clear that there’s something magical about Patrick Brewer—and it has nothing to do with potions or enchantments.

David stares at Patrick for longer than what is probably considered polite. “Thank you,” he says. “I will just put this… I’ll just put this in the fridge, for later.”

“Not big on pasta before noon?”

“Absolutely not.” David grimaces and Patrick’s smile finally breaks free, expanding across the width of his face. That alone makes it worth waking up early.

David sticks the pasta on the top shelf of his minifridge before turning back to Patrick.

“Okay,” he says, the word heavy on his tongue. They only have a few meetings left, and with every step forward, David feels like he’s swimming against a current. “What did you bring me?”

Patrick hands him an old envelope, yellowed and torn open along one side. David takes it, sure to be gentle, and folds back the upper flap. He reaches in and pulls out a birthday card. There’s a smiling bear holding a bunch of balloons on the front. ‘Happy Bear-thday!’ is written across the top. David looks at Patrick.

“She gave this to me on my eleventh birthday.”

David had asked for something handwritten from Rachel—to be used as another anchor for the potion (there is a lot of value is someone’s handwriting, magically speaking)—but he’d been expecting something like a grocery list, or a random post-it note with the wifi password written on it, not…  _ this. _ Not something so sentimental, not something so  _ old. _ This card has Patrick and Rachel’s history embedded in every crease and tear, and it brings a clarity to their relationship that David hadn’t had before.

It’s hard to look something so potent in the eye, and harder still for David to come to terms with what exactly he’s in the middle of, here. 

“Can I…?” David tucks his finger into the card, but waits for Patrick’s confirmation before he continues.

“Sure.” Patrick nods.

The words are written in a looping scrawl, something halfway between print and cursive—bubbly and peppy in a way only eleven year olds seem to capture. David wonders if Rachel is half as charming as her younger self’s penmanship.

David clears his throat and reads, “Dear Patty, happy birthday! I can’t believe it’s been an entire year since we went to the botanical gardens with your parents and your cousin! That was a fun day! Maybe this year we can go to the zoo?” David pauses briefly, to allow himself the appropriate bandwidth to imagine a young Patrick Brewer, tiny and curly haired, running amongst the cherry blossoms, an equally tiny Rachel following behind.

David could never possibly build those kinds of memories with Patrick.

He bites his lip, the subtle pain shocking him into the present. He reads, “Do you think you’ve grown at all or will I be two inches taller than you forever? We should have your mom measure us next time you invite me over. I hope you have a great day! Mrs. Brady has promised no homework! Love, Rachel. P.S. Meet me by the monkey bars after school.”

Homework. Monkey bars. The things Rachel wrote about feel an entire world away, from this moment and from David’s own childhood. Had his mother ever even thought to measure David and Alexis? To track something so temporary as height? The thought of Moira Rose with a measuring tape almost makes David laugh. Adelina might have, however.

David rereads the card once, to himself, the feeling not entirely different from jabbing at a bruise he knows is still sore. When he looks up, Patrick is leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, watching him.

David can only bear the silence for so long before he asks, “Well?”

“What?”

“Did you meet her by the monkey bars?” He thinks it's an innocent enough question, perfectly capable of keeping them talking long enough for David’s heart to stop hammering in his chest. He doesn’t want Patrick to hear it, of course, but he’s more concerned with distracting himself from the near-dizzying sensation.

“Oh,” Patrick says. He brushes his hand up the back of his neck. “Yeah, she uh… She kissed me for the first time, that day by the monkey bars.”

Oh, no.

Rachel has never felt more real to David than she does in this moment. It had been so easy to think of her as hypothetical, abstract. David aches for Patrick, he does, but… the soreness that suddenly blooms in his chest is entirely for Rachel.

“Patrick…” he says, slowly. He thinks for a moment that he can leave it alone—that he’s capable of breezing past the nausea like he’s been doing for nearly four months, but… he looks down at the card still in his hands, focuses on the heart that Rachel drew next to her name. He flips the card closed and reluctantly looks into the eyes of the stupid bear smiling up at him and he  _ can’t  _ pretend anymore. “Why are you doing this?”

“What?” Patrick says. He blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to catch up. “You told me to bring it.”

“Not—this,” David brandishes the card, maybe a little too aggressively. He drops it on the table, the slap of contact making Patrick flinch. “This!” he says, gesturing to the room around them, to the potion bubbling quietly behind them.

“I don’t—” Patrick stops.

“It’s cruel,” David says, finally. “It’s not romantic, it’s not—heroic, it's  _ cruel. _ If it were only you involved—but… you’ve got to know how this would  _ break _ Rachel’s heart.”

“She’ll never find out,” Patrick says, which is such a terrible thing to say that it makes David’s skin crawl. But Patrick’s eyes are wide and his face is flushed and David can see that this entire…  _ situation…  _ has been destroying Patrick from the moment he first set foot in Rose Apothecary.

“This isn’t you,” David whispers.

Patrick places his hand flat against the table between them and leans forward. “Maybe you don’t know me,” he says.

“Don't say that. Of course I know you.” 

They’ve spent the past several months sharing intimate details about their lives, their insecurities, their desires. David doesn’t want to analyze it too closely, though, because if he knows Patrick—and he  _ does, _ he’s sure of it—doesn’t that also mean that Patrick knows him? Doesn’t that mean that the kind of connection that David has been aching for his entire life is right in front of him, mere days away from permanently attaching himself to someone else?

David watches Patrick watching him, but unlike every other time they’ve played this game, neither of them breaks. 

David rests his hand on the table, inches from Patrick’s. When Patrick doesn’t pull back, David nudges his hand closer. Closer and closer, until David is able to brush the very tips of his fingers against Patrick’s.

Patrick’s face cracks for a moment, nearly pinching into something fragile and afraid, but before David can properly read him, he’s schooled his features again.

“Patrick,” David says, and there must be too much reproach in his voice, because Patrick immediately yanks his hand back and stands up.

“Why are you lecturing me?” he shouts. “You don’t know any more about love than I do!”

David furrows his brow. How can he possibly convince Patrick that he’s wrong? That his words hurt, and that, although they may have been true months ago, they are certainly not true now? How can he make clear all the things he’s begun to understand without, of course, revealing how utterly integral Patrick is to David’s newfound knowledge?

If Patrick knows nothing about love, then yes, David  _ does _ know more—because in the ever rare moments when David dares to name it,  _ love _ is exactly what he feels for Patrick. He’s devoted to ignoring it, in every way it presents itself—the swoop in his stomach, the soreness in his jaw after a day of laughing together, the way his hands ache to hold Patrick. It’s a feeling that David has folded into himself, a painful pleasure that he wouldn’t know how to fish out of himself even if he had the proper equipment.

It’s uncomfortable, the way his desire buzzes throughout his body. David has always hated crushes—the nerves that completely destroy his ability to focus on anything else, the adrenaline that’s good for nothing but conjuring unlikely daydreams. They’ve always been more trouble than they’re worth, and this… _ thing _ … with Patrick is so far beyond a crush, David is in new territory.

_ Love. _ David resists the urge to roll his eyes. His entire life he’s never known a damn thing about it, and now, less than four months into knowing Patrick Brewer, he fancies himself some sort of scholar.

He’s not an expert, of course. He couldn’t possibly have mastered it all in so short a time. But he’s at least proficient in the class of “unrequited feelings for a client and possible friend who is engaged to but not in love with someone else”. It’s been a lonely course of study—after all, who in their right mind would sign up for such a thing?

Of course David can’t say any of this.

“It’s not,” he swallows, “it’s not about  _ love, _ Patrick. It’s about respect. You don’t treat someone this way if—”

“I don’t want to hear it!” 

David has been yelled at by many different people, an opera singer and vocal coach with perfect pitch among the most impressive, but never before has he felt the anger in a voice reverberate in his bones. An argument has never hit him so hard before.

“Well,  _ someone _ has to tell you—”

“Not you, David,” Patrick says. “It’s not your place.”

Before David can even feel the bite of his words, Patrick swipes the card from the table and is out the door. An entirely different kind of pain settles within David—the feeling of loss, untethered and wayward.  _ It’s not your place _ bounces like a pinball around his mind—words he’s hated hearing, feared hearing, his entire life. 

It’s painful to hear them from Patrick, and David can admit the words get to him a little bit. But he’s more sure of himself then he’s ever been—he knows his place. He knows where he stands, and if it’s not next to Patrick… Then it’s not next to Patrick.

David remains seated for an imprecise amount of time, not nearly as long as he needs to, but long enough for hunger to begin tugging at his stomach.

He retrieves the container of pasta from the fridge, trying only to think of it as food and not as food that Patrick made—made for Rachel, his almost-wife. He takes a bite and, even cold, it’s delicious. The sauce is creamy and the texture of the pasta is just how David prefers it. He can picture Patrick and Rachel making it together, Rachel begging Patrick to add more garlic and Patrick agreeing so long as Rachel lets him strain the noodles two minutes early.

David figures they’d both be pretty good at that—compromise. It’s something he’s never quite mastered himself—never had reason to master, as compromise generally requires someone to compromise  _ with _ —and, well. There’s freedom in loneliness, afterall. 

Maybe Patrick sees a worthwhile partnership with Rachel; maybe if they can communicate and compromise and laugh together, then they will have built themselves a certain kind of love after all.

David chews the pasta twice before he decides to spit it out. He throws the rest of the container away, too. He’d rather take his chances with bagged soup from the cafe. 

* * *

One unsatisfactory lunch later, David feels only moderately more prepared to address the mess that waits for him at the Apothecary. The store has changed in the past few months—not physically, of course; David would never trust anyone else’s aesthetic judgement. But David sees it differently anyway. Patrick has left memories in every corner and it’s painful to think they might be all David is left with.

When David lets himself into the upstairs studio, the sight of the love potion bubbling softly on the stove turns his stomach. There’s only one solution he can think of. 

David makes a quick phone call, before heading back to the motel with plans to sleep until it all stops hurting. 

* * *

“It’s like a witch’s house in here, David!” Alexis draws the curtains with a rather forceful flourish, inviting the mid-afternoon sun to join in on her harassment. It casts its light right across David’s eyes, effectively preventing him from enjoying his self-pity-nap any longer.

“I  _ am _ a witch, Alexis!” he says, not that she would have forgotten. How many luck-enchanted lip balms has she stolen from the Apothecary in the last two years? Enough, surely, that she should be able to escape any future hostage situation she might find herself in. 

“Ugh, David, that doesn’t mean you have to  _ live _ like one.” She retrieves her emery board from the bedside table, before strutting across the room to sit at her desk. If her presence alone weren’t enough to keep David awake, the persistent grating sound of her filing her nails surely would be. “What’s wrong with you anyway?” she asks.

“Nothing,” David says, tossing and turning. If he lays on his right, he’s forced to look at Alexis while she picks at her cuticles, and if he lays on his left, the sun blasts him right in the eyes. It’s definitely not the worst part of his day, but it certainly feels targeted. He ends up on his back, tugging his blanket over his eyes to block out the world. 

A second later, the bed dips and he feels Alexis’ finger digging into his side.

“David,” she says. “David!”

“What!” he hisses, throwing his blanket back and glaring at her. “What, Alexis?”

“What happened? I thought you were supposed to be spending the day with Patrick?”

“We weren’t  _ spending the day _ together, Alexis. We were—he’s a client. We were  _ working, _ ” David says. “Anyway… it’s done. We’re done.”

“Done, like… like you finished the potion, done? Or like,  _ done _ done?”

“ _ Done _ done, Alexis. Not that there was—but, either way—”

“Okay, David? This is not a good look for you right now, and I feel like it's my job to let you know that, as your sister and life coach.”

“You are _ not— _ ”

Alexis’s voice gets louder. “I just think, David, that you have trouble expressing yourself. And while that totally worked with your whole emo-aesthetic as a teenager, I think—”

“I was not  _ emo, _ Alexis—”

“Shush, David! Listen!” Alexis shifts where she sits, and as she settles she readjusts the drape of her dress so it fans properly around her. “If you don’t let people know how you feel, it’s not reasonable to expect anything in return.”

David doesn’t want to let anyone know how he feels, and he had certainly never concerned himself with being reasonable before, so why should he start now? 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Alexis. There were  _ no _ expectations.” David sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He looks at Alexis as she scrunches her face in disagreement. “There weren’t!” David insists.

“You  _ always _ have, like, ridiculously high expectations though.”

“Okay, are you  _ trying _ to make me feel worse?”

“I just think you have all these ideas about how you want things to be, and you keep it all private up until the moment someone disappoints you.” As she speaks, Alexis gestures wildly with her hands and the one clutching her emery board nearly gouges David’s eye. He flinches once at her words and again to avoid being slashed. 

“I shouldn’t  _ have _ to—”

“But you  _ do, _ David,” Alexis says, her eyes wide and her face as serious as he’s ever seen it. “You need to work on communicating. Talk to Patrick.” She stands and flicks on the bedside lamp. “And turn a light on, ugh.”

David watches Alexis disappear into their parent’s connecting room. He’s alone again, and feeling properly scolded—though what good that does is lost on him. Alexis thinks  _ he _ needs to work on communicating? There were entire months when he didn’t hear from Alexis, not once. None of this had happened recently of course, but nonetheless… David hates that Alexis might be right. He doesn’t even know how he would follow her advice if he wanted to. After all, what is he supposed to do—tell Patrick that he loves him?

* * *

It’s Monday evening and David has just locked the Apothecary door when he sees Patrick coming out of the cafe and crossing the street. He watches Patrick take the steps two at a time, before he taps his knuckles against the doorframe. David has half a mind to leave him there, to let him watch as he sweeps every last spec of dirt and dust, but… the other half of his mind very much wants to let Patrick in—into the store and into his heart.  _ Maybe if he knew… _

David crosses the floor and unlocks the door. He opens it just enough to speak. 

“What?” he says.

“C’mon, let me in.” 

It’s those damn eyes, every time. David fights himself for a second, before gritting his teeth and stepping aside. Patrick brushes his shoulder as he pushes through the door.

“I think I owe you an apology,” Patrick says. He doesn’t look nearly as bad as David feels.

“I think so too.” David steps back and crosses his arms.

Patrick just looks at him then, like offering to apologize has taken care of the apology itself. David quirks an eyebrow, which seems to loosen something in him.

“I’m sorry, David. I shouldn’t have talked to you that way. I am… flattered than you’re concerned, but… I think we both said some things we didn’t mean.”

“No,” David says. He flattens his lips together and shakes his head.

“No?”

“I meant everything I said.”

“Oh,” Patrick says, the words leaving his mouth on an exhale. He blinks in that very specific Patrick Brewer way. David has to look away, lest he immediately fall to his knees to beg Patrick to forgive him.

“I called Wendy.” David drags the broom back and forth in front of him, an offensive mimicry at sweeping—if he hadn’t already finished, surely dust would be scattered in every direction.

“Wendy?”

“She owed me a favor, actually. When I still worked for her, I had to babysit her step-daughter, and you can only imagine—”

“David.” Patrick’s voice is firm, and David can hear the words behind the interruption:  _ get to the point. _ It’s not a tone Patrick has used with him often; in fact, Patrick usually loves his tangential stories—it’s more than just patience, sometimes he seems to actively enjoy himself, nodding and smiling as David runs circles around whatever point he’s trying to make.

That is to say, Patrick’s sharpness pierces David’s bubble of self-preservation—pops it, in fact.

“Wendy will finish the love potion for you, if that’s… If that’s what you still want,” he says. 

“What? No!” Patrick takes a step forward, and as he does, David moves behind the counter—a wall to replace his bubble. 

“It’s… not what you want?” He feels foolish for the way his voice lifts, for the way the nausea temporarily subsides.

“No,” Patrick says. “I mean… it  _ is, _ but I want  _ you _ to do it.”

David’s heart sinks. “I can’t, Patrick.”

“Of course you can!” Patrick leans on the counter. “I know you’re upset, but—”

“No, Patrick.” David’s voice is firm. He looks directly into Patrick’s eyes, well aware that the amount of time he has with them is dwindling. If he could memorize the exact color, maybe then his dreams will sustain him. “I mean, I  _ won’t.” _

“Why? I don’t understand—”

“I’m in love with you.”

David’s words hang between them, left to fade into the silence. Patrick doesn’t say anything and David is not naive enough to hope he didn’t hear them. He wishes he had left music playing so that there was something to focus on besides the sound of Patrick’s breathing. 

“You… what?”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

“David, I—” Patrick halts, and for a moment David thinks he’s going to say it back. But then, “I don’t know what to do with that.”

David feels ridiculous. 

“I’m not asking you to do anything,” he says. “I just—actually? I am. I’m asking you to leave, please. I dropped the potion off at Wendy’s shop yesterday. She’ll be waiting for you.”

Patrick stands quietly, staring at David. David, for his part, doesn’t even try to read him—he doesn’t read anything into the silence, doesn’t read into Patrick’s hesitation. He absolutely does not allow himself to think, for a moment, that Patrick might stay. 

Patrick takes one careful backwards step, holding eye contact all the while. He stops, reaching into his back pocket. He pulls out an envelope, holds it up briefly for David to see, before placing it on the counter between them.

He hesitates only a moment longer, before abruptly turning around and leaving through the apothecary door. The bell is like a sharp wail in David’s ears.

Only once Patrick is gone, does David allow himself to reach for the envelope. His name is written on the front in a looping scrawl that David notes is distinctly  _ not _ Patrick’s. He rips the envelope open and pulls out a pearl-finished wedding invitation. He fights the tears that begin to pool as he reads, but it’s no use and the words blur together.

Mr. and Mrs. Edward Walsh

Request the pleasure of your company

at the marriage of their daughter

Rachel Marie Walsh

To

Patrick Andrew Brewer

Saturday November 16th

4 o’clock in the afternoon

at The Elmdale Country Club

Dinner and dancing to follow

Each word pinches at David’s heart. He had never wanted the privilege of knowing Patrick’s middle name granted to him by a wedding invitation, of all things. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth—how he had roped himself into this world, imagining for himself a bigger part than he had been given. He feels insignificant. It’s like third grade all over again—auditioning for the role of Peter Pan, only to be cast as a nameless lost boy. The memory is still a sore one for David, and not only because he would have rocked those green tights. 

It’s good, then, that he had tempered his expectations, because watching Patrick walk out the door, not knowing if he would ever come back, leaves David with a crack in his heart. If he  _ had _ actually allowed himself to hope, surely this would have been the chisel that finally split his heart in two. 

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already mentioned how hard this fic was to write, but I seriously questioned at times if it was even worth it. All of your lovely and generous comments have made me think that yeah, it was. So thank you to everyone who has read, left kudos, or commented! I appreciate every single one of you!
> 
> I hope you enjoy the final chapter!

David hadn't thrown Patrick’s wedding invitation away, like he knows he should have. He had tucked it into the drawer under the cash register, and all week long it had mocked him from that spot. 

He feels its presence extra today, knowing that it’s only a matter of hours before Patrick will be saying his vows, promising himself to Rachel for the rest of their lives. David does his best not to think about the ceremony, but that soon proves useless. So, as a compromise, he allows himself to wonder what everyone is wearing. That feels like a safe level of curiosity—to wonder about the clothing and the decorations, the color palette—superficial things that he can hold an arms length away from his heart. 

Thinking about what flowers Rachel might have chosen inches too close to uncomfortable, brings up too many memories of hours spent by Patrick’s side, talking about what flowers mean and how they smelled and which he liked most. So David searches for their venue online and distracts himself with pretty photographs and does  _ not _ imagine that any of it could ever be his.

The weather is beautiful today, of course—sunny and unusually warm for November, and David finds himself hoping they have a beautiful ceremony. He wants that for Patrick. No one deserves a life full of love more than he does, and even if David doesn’t get to be the one to share it with him, he still much prefers to fantasize about a future where Patrick is happy. It’s the way David has chosen to remember him—with a wide smile and sparkling eyes, smugness written across his features when he had delivered a particularly good one liner, and  _ not _ as he looked when they had last spoken—devastated, confused, defeated. 

The only drawback is that the vibrancy of his memories makes it that much harder for David to let go. How can he move on when he has hours of Patrick to replay in his mind?

He had resisted asking about Patrick when he talked to Wendy just yesterday, but she had supplied everything he wanted to know anyway, completely unprompted. She had been more than happy to tell him all about how she and Patrick had finished the potion together. She threw a few compliments David’s way, about how strong the potion would be, how she was proud of the quality of work David had been able to produce.

“You must have worked very hard on this potion, David—it’s so potent! Patrick and his wife will be ravaging each other for years to come, I’m sure of it!”

It was how Wendy gave compliments, traditionally, by inching her way toward impropriety. But in her defense, she didn’t  _ know _ —she never set out to upset people, despite how often upset resulted anyway. 

Still, David’s feelings are his alone to contend with. He can’t blame anyone else for stumbling into something they know nothing about.

But Wendy can always be counted on to supply more information than anyone would typically want to know, except… David  _ did _ want to know, and her tendencies saved him the (personal) embarrassment of asking.

“Patrick is a sweet boy, David,” she said into the telephone, “but it’s no wonder he needs this potion. He didn’t seem excited about the wedding  _ at all!  _ And I thought he was going to throw up when I suggested he drink the potion under my supervision.”

“Did he?” David had interjected, unable to resist.

“Did he what?”

“Drink the potion, Wendy!” David did his best to choke down his frustration. “Did he… you saw him drink it?” 

His blood pumped so loudly in his ears he nearly ran the risk of missing what Wendy said. Luckily, her voice was grating enough to cut through his fog.

“Oh, no!” She said. “He said he had to think about it, actually. Tell me,  _ why _ would someone spend so much time and money on a potion, to not end up drinking it? He doesn’t seem like the flighty, impulsive type.”

“Maybe he changed his mind,” David said. He felt something stir in his stomach and he realized that, like a weed that wouldn’t go away, it was  _ hope _ —he had tried his best to dig it out, roots and all, but apparently enough was left behind for it to bloom again. 

“Why would he change his mind? This potion will give him everything he asked for! And the  _ libido— _ ”

“ _ Okay, _ Wendy—”

“I’m just saying, David. It’s strange, right?”

“Yeah,” David said. “It’s strange.”

It was a struggle to keep talking to Wendy after her revelation—David said his thank yous and his goodbyes and after another twenty minutes, he was finally able to get her off the phone. 

He spent the rest of his Friday in a cycle of nail biting, followed by filing down the ragged edge, only to bite the nail again five minutes later. He’d dug into a new tin of cuticle cream in an effort to regain some semblance of himself.

It  _ was _ strange. Surely if Patrick had changed his mind, David would know, right? 

Patrick would’ve told him. 

Right? 

They had at least gotten close enough for that common courtesy, hadn’t they? So obviously, he did  _ not  _ change his mind—Patrick Brewer is getting married today. David tries, really hard, to believe this, to take it as fact. Patrick  _ is _ getting married. Patrick is  _ not _ going to show up at Rose Apothecary any minute and declare his love to David. 

David glances at the door twice every minute, anyway. 

Patrick doesn’t show. 

* * *

The next two weeks pass in a slow drag; as it gets colder, the creek starts to freeze and David feels something freeze in him as well, or  _ refreeze, _ maybe. He plays his music too loud again and sometimes he tricks himself into thinking he can hear Patrick humming along. It’s not enough to delete half of the playlist—every song that reminds him even remotely of Patrick—David eventually stops playing music altogether. There’s a peacefulness in the quiet, anyway, and don’t customers prefer to focus while they shop?

It takes the better part of a week for David to stop waiting for Patrick to show up, but even now he flinches when the bell rings above the apothecary door. 

Stevie watches him, and Alexis watches him, and even his mother has taken a hiatus from her constant whirlwind of demands and expectations. His father hugged him yesterday, which is how David figures he must have reached new levels of mopey. He tries to remember who he was before he met Patrick Brewer, and if that version of himself is even someone he wants to be again. Everyday David is forced to contend with the fact that Patrick changed him—he left a mark on David’s soul and David hasn’t yet grown used to the weight of it.

The bell rings and it’s Stevie. She buys a candle, even though she has never burned any of the countless candles David has gifted her over the years.

“Taking an interest in pyromania?” David asks.

“As a matter of fact,” says Stevie, “I am. I need a new hobby to list on my bumpkin profile.”

The bell rings and it’s Ronnie. She wants David’s advice on a cursed property on the outskirts of Schitt’s Creek. It’s fairly tame, as far as curses go, but Ronnie is thorough and David doesn’t mind explaining things twice. She doesn’t insult him once. 

When Jocelyn shows up to buy foot-cream, she doesn’t regale David with the details of her and Roland’s sex life. Rather she just informs him that the very last of Roland’s extra toes finally disappeared yesterday.

“Thank you, David,” she says. “You’ve been a big help to our little community.”

It’s telling that the sentiment nearly brings him to tears.

The bell rings and the bell rings and the bell rings and it’s Gwen and Dot and Eric and Twyla. The bell rings and it’s never Patrick and David contemplates taking the damn thing off the door to preserve his sanity, but it turns out to be worse when the bell doesn’t ring at all.

* * *

The bell rings.

David is in the back room flattening a couple of boxes when he hears it. His heartbeat picks up, but he doesn’t twitch anymore and he doesn’t rush to the front to see who it is. Instead, he takes his time—he unfolds another box and drops it to the floor, where he steps on top of it. He takes the pile of boxes and moves them down the hallway, towards the back door, where he’ll take them outside to the recycling bin after he closes. Only then, does he push the curtain aside and walk through to the front of the store. 

David doesn’t see anyone.

He is about to retreat to the back when, to his right, just out of his line of vision, someone clears their throat. David flinches in fright, but his fear isn’t the reason his heart feels like it's about to beat out of his chest.

“Hi,” Patrick says.

Patrick is here, in David’s store—in Rose Apothecary. There are so many things David wants to say to him, like  _ what are you doing here _ and  _ can I help you with something _ and  _ I’ve missed you _ and  _ do you love me  _ and  _ are you married? _

“Hi,” he says. It’s nothing more than a whisper.

Patrick shifts on his feet, uneasy under David’s steady gaze. He should say something else, but he can’t stop staring. And anyway, Patrick came here—it’s his move. Although, maybe showing up  _ was _ his move. Maybe it’s David’s move now. 

“Can I help you with something?” he says, wishing he could settle into his role as shop owner and forget that he’d ever wished for more between them than just a professional relationship.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, digging his hand into his pocket. “I’d like to make a return if you don’t mind.” He holds up an orange ribbon, worn in the middle and frayed along the edge. David’s mind takes him back to the day he had met Patrick, close to five months ago. 

“We don’t accept returns, especially if the product has obviously been used.”

“Even if your product didn’t work? That doesn’t seem very customer friendly, David.” Patrick says his name on a whisper, and David realizes suddenly how much he had missed hearing it. His name doesn’t sound quite so sweet, so sacred, when Alexis has bracketed it with insults.

“Maybe you didn’t use it right,” David says—he  _ hopes _ that’s what he says, anyway. Approximately eighty-seven percent of his brain power is going towards  _ not _ launching himself across the floor and into Patrick’s arms. 

“I used it exactly how you told me too. I waited  _ months, _ David, and I never saw even one hummingbird.” Patrick closes his eyes for a beat, and when he opens them again David swears he sees something new in their depths. “But every time I looked out the window and saw the ribbon, I thought of  _ you. _ ”

“Oh,” David says. A warmth spreads from inside of him, and so he tries to do what he’s always done—deflect. “The best I can do is store credit.”

Patrick ignores him.

“I started to think that maybe I had to stop looking for a sign, for something to tell me what I should do—and just… take charge, myself. Do what _ I  _ wanted, for once.”

“That’s great character development,” David says.

Patrick huffs a laugh, then takes a moment to stare at his feet. When he looks back up, he looks directly into David’s eyes. David realizes that what he sees, what has been missing from Patrick since they met, is happiness—its freedom and hope and possibility, and it’s bright and shiny and blinding. It nearly knocks him over.

“What is it you want?” David asks. His heart is beating wildly, and with it, in perfect rhythm, his mind chants  _ please choose me please choose me please choose me. _

“I’ve been thinking about that since the moment I walked out of Rose Apothecary. It took two meetings with Wendy to finish the potion, and—I feel so stupid, David. I should have realized months ago that I’d never be able to drink it.”

“You didn’t drink it?”

“I didn’t drink it.” Patrick takes a step towards David, just one, but it’s significant enough to ease something within David, like the distance between them indirectly correlates to how grounded David feels. “I hand the potion in my hand and I—I must have stared at it for hours, David. I couldn’t stop thinking about how I felt like I was giving up, like I was fighting for the wrong person.”

“The wrong person?”

_ Please choose me. _

“Rachel is—she will always be important to me,” Patrick says. “I messed up and… I just hope that someday she can forgive me. I hope that someday I can forgive myself. But she’s not  _ my _ —I don’t—”

“You don’t love her,” David says, not for the first time.

The difference is, this time Patrick doesn’t hesitate to confirm.

“I don’t love her,” he says. It’s lighter on his tongue, like it’s no longer the tragedy he had made it out to be in the beginning. It’s not condemning, it’s just factual. Patrick doesn’t love Rachel and it’s not the end of the world—neither his, nor Rachel’s.

“So you’re...  _ not _ married?” David ventures.

“No, David, I’m not married.”

They hold each other with their eyes and it’s a moment David will remember forever—the first moment where he truly believed that Patrick Brewer could love  _ him,  _ David Rose. The first time he felt safe enough to  _ let _ himself want it, no resistance.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I wanted to.” Patrick takes another step. “I wanted to come here the second I broke it off with Rachel, David. I just… I didn’t know if you wanted to see me and I didn’t know what I would tell you if you did.”

“I wanted to see you,” David says. It feels like an understatement.

“I’m here now,” Patrick says. The way he says it makes  _ here _ sound like  _ home. _

“To return a ribbon.” David has to be sure.

“No, David, not to return the ribbon—I don’t care about the ribbon.” Patrick glances at the ribbon, still bunched in his hand, like he had forgotten it was there. He shoves it back into his pocket. “I’m here,” he says, “to tell you I love you.”

A tear just about spills down David’s cheek, but he catches it with a swipe of his thumb. “How do you know?” he asks.

Patrick takes a second to answer. He bites his lip. “I guess… There was this feeling that I had had my entire life, like I was… missing something, or maybe just that I was chasing something,  _ wanting _ something. I thought it was something that I could build with Rachel—when that didn’t work, I thought, hey, maybe everyone feels this way.” Patrick exhales, slow and steady, like speaking about his pain helps to soften the memory of it. “But it became increasingly obvious that Rachel didn’t feel that way, my parents didn’t feel that way.”

David listens, fighting against every urge to take Patrick into his arms. 

“I never felt like I was missing anything with you, David.  _ You _ make me feel right,” Patrick says and it might be the most beautiful thing David has ever heard, second only to the ringing bell that had signified Patrick’s return. “That’s why I could never bring myself to leave, why I dragged out every meeting. That’s why I—

“That’s why you made me wake up early on Sundays,” David says.

Patrick laughs, and it’s like hearing him say  _ I love you _ all over again. “Exactly. Can you blame me?”

“Not even a little bit.”

Patrick takes another step, and David feels like he ought to contribute something, so he takes a step, too. There’s only a tiny gap between them now, but the last step, the final bit of distance between them—that’s for Patrick to conquer.

“Did I ruin everything, David? Or do you still—” Patrick swallows, attempts to clear the emotion from his throat. “Do you still love me?”

“I love you, Patrick,” David says.  _ Still _ feels like such a useless word.

It’s all Patrick needs to hear to take the final step. After months and months, he finally lands in David’s arms.

“Hi,” Patrick whispers, before he leans in and kisses David. 

David lets himself be kissed for a moment, just long enough to understand Patrick’s rhythm, to memorize the shape and feel of Patrick’s lips on his, before he joins in full force. Patrick’s mouth tastes like tea and his arms are warm and heavy around David’s middle. David slides his arms up Patrick’s chest to rest them on his shoulders. 

They fit together like pieces of a puzzle, or a lock and a key, or maybe just like two people who love each other. David can think of nothing that feels better—nothing that feels more  _ right _ than this.

Patrick breaks the kiss, but before he pulls away he kisses David once more, short and sweet. “So,” he says. “I’ve heard kissing a witch is good luck. Is it true?”

“It’s true,” David says. 

Patrick leans in. 

* * *

When Patrick comes back to the Apothecary the next day, he brings the potion with him. 

“I didn’t know how to properly dispose of it,” he says. “I didn’t know if it’s, like… an environmental hazard or something.”

“Seriously, maybe you should meet Ted before you decide you’re in love with  _ me, _ ” David says.

They climb the stairs together and this time when David looks back at Patrick, he doesn’t have to wonder about his preferences. He closes the door and Patrick immediately crowds David against it, pressing their bodies together and kissing him on the mouth.

They’re both breathing heavy when they part, but Patrick has just enough breath to say, “I thought about doing that so many times.”

“I would have been… very receptive.”

“You seem very receptive,” Patrick says. He grinds his hips against David’s to illustrate his point, and then moves to start a hickey on David’s neck.

“I thought—” David says, tilting his head to make room for Patrick, who leaves a trail of kisses along David’s jaw and down his length of his throat. “I thought there was—we have to… the  _ potion, _ Patrick.”

“Mm,” Patrick says. Another kiss. “You’re right, David.” And then he’s gone and David has never hated being right more.

Patrick walks across the room and leans against the counter. He sets the potion bottle down beside him and looks at David. “Okay, so… how do we do this?”

“It’s easy,” David says. He stands beside Patrick. “But… I just want to check one more time. You’re sure about this?”

Patrick’s quiet and there’s an intense focus in his eyes while he looks over every inch of David’s face. His gaze lingers on David’s mouth before he meets David’s eyes again.

“Easiest decision of my life.”

“Mhm.” David presses his lips together and nods his head, probably one too many times to come across as truly unaffected by those words. He breezes past the sentiment by reaching across Patrick to grab the bottle. It glows in a faint pink against his hand. “Okay,” he says, and then he removes the cork, raises the bottle to his lips, and downs its contents in one go.

“David!” Patrick yells. He grabs at David’s arm, but it’s too late. His jaw drops and his face turns white. There’s a franticness settling into his eyes and David realizes he should have clued Patrick into what  _ exactly _ he was going to do.

“It’s fine, Patrick. It’s okay,” David reassures him.

“But—”

“The potion would only have ever worked on you.” David slips his arms around Patrick’s waist and pulls him closer. “The safest way to get rid of a love potion you no longer want, is to have somebody untethered drink it. It’s safe, I promise.”

“Okay,” Patrick whispers. He leans his forehead against David’s.

“I love you,” David says. Patrick moves to kiss him then, but David stops him with a finger to his lips. “Let me just wash my mouth?”

Patrick laughs, but lets David leave his arms—they both know it won’t last. 

David rinses his mouth—all the while insisting that Patrick  _ look away _ —and soon after they’re wrapped in each other again. 

“Everything okay?” David asks.

Patrick looks around the room, before his eyes settle on the round table where they spent so many hours together. “It’s just… being here, I can’t help but think about all of the time we wasted.”

“I don’t think any of it was wasted.”

“No?”

“I fell in love with you in this room. How could I ever regret that?”

“David,” Patrick says, but then David is being kissed and he doesn’t get the chance to reply.

David treasures every memory of those first four months getting to know Patrick, but he also can’t wait for the new moments where they can touch and kiss and flirt on  _ purpose _ . They start immediately—David brews coffee for himself and tea for Patrick and they sit at the table together. This time, they hold hands. This time, when they talk about relationships, it’s easy to imagine a future.

This time, in the quiet of the room, there is no love potion bubbling behind them. 

When they’re on their way out (this time they leave together), David sees Patrick swipe the empty potion bottle from the table. He doesn’t ask.

* * *

They try to take their time working out the logistics of their relationship—how often is it appropriate to see someone you’ve just begun dating but are already in love with? They do first dates and second dates, but by the third they’re both sick of pretending that this is still a budding relationship. They  _ want _ each other and they  _ have _ each other and it’s no use pretending they aren’t working towards building a life together. 

It’s three weeks after their first kiss that Patrick works his first full day at Rose Apothecary.

The best part about hiring Patrick—besides the stolen kisses and long make-out sessions during lulls, and the fact that David never has to do his own taxes again—is that he is more than willing to handle Jocelyn every time she comes into the store.

“Roland’s breathing fire,” Jocelyn says.

“Again?” David asks.

“Sorry,” Patrick says. “He’s… what?”

“Every time Roland burps, there’s fire,” Jocelyn explains. “My house smells like burnt cheese.”

“Okay,” David says. “That’s  _ not  _ appropriate—”

“Do you want me to handle this, David?” Patrick offers. David nods and Patrick kisses his temple before leading Jocelyn towards the cash. “Jocelyn, we’ve got some breath mints that might help.”

Patrick explains the logistics to Jocelyn,  _ thoroughly _ and  _ more than once _ , rings her up and sends her on her way. David is impressed with how well Patrick has learned their products and the interest he’s taken in magic.

Or David  _ would _ be impressed, if not for one detail. “So I noticed you put the new breath mints by the cash,” he says, sidling up to Patrick.

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Is that a problem?” He tilts his head and blinks in that obnoxiously innocent way of his.

“It’s just… the lip balms are best sellers.”

“Actually, Jocelyn just bought twelve packs of mints, so that makes  _ them _ the new best seller.”

“Mhm, I see,” David says. “So you make all of the decisions now? Should we rebrand? Brewer Apothecary? It’s a bit of a mouthful, but…”

“You know, I’m glad you mentioned it—Brewer Apothecary is great, but I was actually thinking we could go with something a little more… nuanced? What do you think about ‘Witch’s Brew?’”

“Absolutely not, oh my god.” David is horrified and if his words alone don’t make that clear, his scowl certainly does.

“Think about it, David,” Patrick says, eyes twinkling.

“I will break up with you.”

“But how will you ever run Witch’s Brew without me?”

* * *

Patrick keeps the empty potion bottle. It sits on a shelf in his apartment between a framed photograph of his parents and a stack of (non-magical) business books. It’s a pain to dust around but when it catches the midday light and refracts it in rainbows across the walls, it’s beautiful.

A year later it sits on another shelf, in the apartment in Schitt’s Creek that David and Patrick rent together. This time it’s accompanied by a few other knick-knacks—among them, an orange ribbon—and a more eclectic collection of books.

Another year later and the bottle sits in a house, on a mantel above a fireplace, next to Patrick and David’s wedding photo.

“Why do you keep it?” David asks.

Patrick answers, “To remind myself that I made the right choice.”

Patrick leans in to kiss him, slow and long, and David doesn’t know what gift from Patrick’s mouth is sweeter—his kisses or his words.

“Lucky me,” David says.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Say hi on [tumblr!](https://hagface.tumblr.com)


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